


floating through a dark blue sky

by Lediona



Category: Notting Hill (1999), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Dates, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Hobnobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Notting Hill AU, POV John Watson, Past Drug Addiction, embarrassing friends and family, meet cute, possibly awkward and endearing flirting, romcom, sherlock is a movie star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-05-24 16:44:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lediona/pseuds/Lediona
Summary: Of course, I’d seen his films and always thought he was, well, brilliant -- but, you know, a million miles from the world I live in.***Or, when John is the owner of a travel book shop and the famous Sherlock Holmes stops in one day.





	1. in the noisy confusion of life

**Author's Note:**

> This began as an impromptu fic... the gif of Sherlock folding napkins is basically me with this fic - 'so that just happened...' I hope you enjoy!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @lediona25! x

Of course, I’d seen his films and always thought he was, well, brilliant -- but, you know, a million miles from the world I live in. Which is here -- Notting Hill. Not the posh bit off Ladbroke Grove with all those private gardens or near Portobello Market, with its quaint cafes and market stalls selling overpriced bread and cut flowers, frequented by those 30-somethings who’ve made all the right choices in life. No, not that Notting Hill. I live a few streets away, bordering a slightly grubbier part of London, more likely to smell of days old rubbish than flowers. Not a bad place to be, really, but when asked, and if I don’t want to feel the weight of judgement for my tiny flat on an obscure street, I simply say I stay in Notting Hill and let people create a vision of my life in their heads.

I like it here though. The few friends I have are nearby -- there’s Greg, a copper who often seems just as disenchanted with life as I am, but he tends to hide it better, and Molly, a friend from university, who spends her days in the morgue at St. Bart’s. She is now married to Greg, but let it be known that she was my friend first. There’s Mike, another university friend and a doctor, and the one in our group that is most adept at making sensible decisions. And, of course, my baby sister Harry, whose life seems to be a string of unfortunate decisions but we love her anyway.

So this is where I spend my days, where I lead a strange half-life. I wake up in this tiny flat that I bought after my wife left me (that is another story entirely), eat some toast with jam, pick up a coffee from the place around the corner as I walk to work, sometimes have dinner with my friends, more often than not, I spend the evening flicking through channels on my small telly and ordering a takeaway. Perhaps I wouldn’t be a million miles from his world if my life had led me to one of those three-story Notting Hill houses with access to a private garden.

And so it was just another hopeless Wednesday, as I set off for work, little suspecting that this was the day which would change my life forever. Work, by the way, is my shop called 'The Travel Book Co.' which, well, sells travel books -- and, to be frank with you, doesn't always sell many of those. Seemed like a good idea back when I was fresh out of the Army and desperately hoping to be anywhere else in the world other than a hospital bed, healing from a bullet to the shoulder. If I couldn’t travel the world in reality, then I could do so through books and help people make their dreams come true. Turns out, I’m a rubbish business owner and even worse at customer service, too much of a grumpy git, so I usually hole myself up in the office with stacks of purchase orders, while Anderson, my shop assistant, works the till. I think he may be even worse at customer service than I am, but it saves me from having to smile and make small talk.  
Anyway, where was I… Oh, right, the Wednesday that changed my life.

We’ve just had a major sales push for books about Southeast Asia, the hot new travel destination according to some poll Anderson found on the Internet, and I am attempting to square the books to see how we’ve done. Double-checking the figures I’d entered on the calculator, I hit the equals button and close my eyes for a second, sending up a brief prayer to whatever god is up there, and then look down --

“Shit!” That can’t be right, surely?

“What is it, boss?” Anderson’s greasy head pops round the doorframe.

“Classic. Just classic. All our effort to tempt visitors into reading about Laos or Cambodia or wherever and somehow we’re down £347.”

Anderson whistles in that annoying way he has, as if this doesn’t affect him at all. “Shall I pop out and grab us a couple cappuccinos? Some caffeine to get the juices flowing so we can plan our next push -- I hear Peru is popular with the uni kids!”

Some days I want to throttle him, but right now, I just want him out of my hair. “Best get one while we can still afford it -- we’ll be stuck with instant coffee if this continues…”

Saluting, Anderson spins on his heel and vanishes from the door. With him away, I allow my head to drop to the desk, the resulting thunk sounding loud in the empty shop. The shop is bleeding money and I don’t have a fucking clue how to stop it. At this rate, I’ll be out of a job and on Greg and Molly’s Li-lo by the summer bank holiday.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shitty buggering fuck.”

“Very eloquent.” A voice, deep and slightly mocking, interrupts my panic and I snap my head up to see a customer browsing the shelves opposite my office.

I push back my chair and stumble around the desk in embarrassment at being caught in such an unprofessional state. “S-sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was here. Just a bit of a bad moment there, I’m afraid, not usually one to talk to myself.” I am ashamed to note that I giggle then, a nervous habit from my school days that I just can’t seem to shake. “Can I help you find anything?”

The man, clearly a posh bloke judging by his coat and shoes, finally glances over at me and he proceeds to look me up and down, as if to assess if he can deign to speak with me.

“I always find it useful.”

“Pardon?” Apparently I passed whatever test he’d devised, but he seems to be in the middle of a conversation I don’t remember starting and I have no clue what he means.

He sighs. “Talking to myself -- it can be useful. As most people are idiots, I find it easier to tease out problems if I speak out loud to myself. Granted, I usually employ fewer vulgarities than you just did, but one cannot deny that there is a certain satisfaction in a good curse word.”

Well. That’s not at all what I expected him to say, so I tell him, “That’s not at all what I expected you to say.”

The corner of his mouth hints at a smile and he begins browsing the bookshelves again. “Nothing worse than being predictable.”

“Indeed.” I muster a knowing chuckle, like I, too, am the type of man with an air of mystery, who can wrong-foot with only a simple turn of phrase. In reality, I’m probably the most predictable of men, simple, comfortable, dull.

He picks up a book about Afghanistan and turns it to read the blurb on the back.

“That one is rubbish, just in case you were, you know, looking to buy. I think it was written by someone who knows someone who once visited Afghanistan. Probably shouldn’t have it on the shelf anymore, but we have them in stock so there they stay until they’re sold, which isn’t likely to happen if I keep telling customers not to buy it…” Oh my god, stop talking right this minute, you absolute fool.

The man glances from the book in his hand back to me, an amused look dances across his features and and I can feel a flush creep up the back of my neck.

“Well, then, Mr. -- ?”

“Uh, it’s Watson, but John is fine.”

“Well, then, John, which would you recommend?”

His blue eyes are sparkling and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not, so I force myself to take a few steps forward to look at the collection of books I’ve gathered about Afghanistan. “It depends on what you’re looking for really. This one is good for general travel tips, this one for Afghan history, this is about conflict and military interventions in the area, and this --”

“Ah, that’s it.”

I stop pulling books off the shelf. “What is?” Again, I feel like he’s started in the middle of a conversation and I’m stuck playing catch up.

“I couldn’t put my finger on it right away, but now I see it. How long were you in the Army?”

A small shock zips through me. Not that my military service is a secret, but it’s just not something I talk about, even with Greg and Mols, and especially not with random customers that wander into my shop. “I, um, I was -- how did you know that?”

“Yes, well, your hair still has that too short and too neat look: a cut of habit. Your posture, once you’re not slumped over your desk, screams soldier - even now you’re standing at parade rest - and when you mentioned the book about conflict and military history, it was clear that it was a subject you knew well.”

I’m a bit gobsmacked by that and my mouth is hanging open in what is probably a highly unattractive manner. “That was amazing.”

“Was it?” The man looks genuinely chuffed, a faint flush staining his pale cheeks.

“Yes, of course it was. Most people just don’t peg me as a soldier. I mean, I run travel book shop. Not exactly the route most former servicemen go down.”

“I am not most people.” This should sound conceited or self-aggrandising, but something about the way he says it makes it come across as a simple fact.

“No, no you are not.”

He is fascinating and there were so many things I want to ask him. Just as I open up my mouth to ask one of the many questions rattling around in my head, the bell over the door rings and Anderson stumbles back into the shop, expensive cappuccinos in hand.

“Hey, boss! Not only do I come bearing coffee, but Janine was working today and she asked me to say hi to you and threw in a couple chocolate croissants with our order. I’m telling you, you’re in like Flynn with her, Johnny-boy! I don’t know why you keep turning her down. I’d have her in a second!” Anderson, in his usual blundering way, started talking immediately upon stepping into the shop, taking in nothing of his surroundings or the fact that we have a customer, and did not stop until he’s handed me my coffee.

I take the cup with a grimace and glance to my left, at the customer, ready to apologise for my arsehole of an assistant. The man is holding two of the books I had recommended - the ones about Afghan history and military interventions, I am strangely pleased to note - and is gazing at Anderson with distaste.

“Blimey, you’re Sherlock Holmes!”

At Anderson’s exclamation, I suddenly recognise the man standing in front of me -- I’ve seen him on enough magazine covers that it should have been obvious earlier. Now I feel rather ridiculous that it took me so long to place him, but I honestly never expected him to come into my shop. When you see celebrities on telly or film posters, it’s so easy to forget that they’re just people; people who do ordinary things like pop to the shops, meet friends for a drink, and, apparently, patronise independent bookstores.

The man’s - Sherlock Holmes’ - eyes narrow and it’s like a shutter comes down between us. Gone is the reserved but charming man and in his place is this cold and distant stranger. I want to shrink back from him at the change, but Anderson is seemingly oblivious. “Could I get an autograph?”

It’s like watching a traffic accident. Except when I see a traffic accident, the emotion I feel isn’t a deep and unrelenting mortification. Why can’t Anderson ever just shut his gob?

“Fine,” Sherlock Holmes clips out. He sets the books back down on the shelf and makes his way to the counter. If I hadn’t just taken part in our previous conversation, I would have said he was restrained and polite, but now that I’ve seen a different side to him, I can read the irritation in his movements. When he reaches the counter, he picks up an abandoned Bic pen and flips over a flyer for a community performance of Much Ado About Nothing. “To whom do I make it out?”

Anderson rushes over. “Philip Anderson, please, Mr. Holmes!”

Sherlock Holmes jerks his head in a curt nod and begins scratching a note. Upon finishing he thrusts it at Anderson, recaps the pen and slaps it down on the counter.

“Oh, thanks! Hey, what does it say below my name?” Anderson asks, staring at the paper in puzzlement.

“It says ‘To Philip Anderson, Your mere presence is enough to make me despair for the future of humanity.’ And if you have no other annoying questions, I think I’ll be off.” He walks towards the door, coat swirling around him, and stops with his hand on the handle, turning back to look at me, grey eyes reverting to some of their earlier warmth, “Good day, John.”

And with that, Sherlock Holmes whirls out the door, out of my shop, and out of my life.  
I feel dazed and strangely angry.

I’d been an oblivious fool in front of one of the most famous actors in Britain, practically simpering under his attention and I’m sure he thought I was completely daft, wittering away as I’d done.

Not only that but Anderson’s complete inability to act like a decent human being made a potential customer practically flee from our shop and cost us a sale. While I highly doubt Sherlock Holmes was really interested in books about Afghanistan, I’d at least had hope that he’d buy something while the books had been in his hands, but then Anderson had shown up and those books were back on the shelf where they’d been sitting for months.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Anderson.” I decide to ignore my embarrassment and focus on Anderson as a target for my outrage. If nothing else, I’m exceptionally attached to my stereotypically British ability to stifle my emotions and carry on regardless.

“What?”

“Did you see him buy any books?”

“Well, no, but I did get an autograph, and we can now tell people that Sherlock bloody Holmes was in the shop. Maybe that could be part of our advertising!”

“Anderson, he insulted you and then he left. You want to use that to attract customers?”

“Well, no, but no one has to know that he didn’t buy anything. We can just tell people that he was here. ‘The Travel Book Co. - Sherlock Holmes’ bookshop of choice!’ A little celebrity endorsement never hurts!”

I can feel a headache coming on. “I’m sure his lawyers would love that. I don’t have enough money for lunch, let alone for legal fees.”

“Okay, fine. It was just an idea. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

I suddenly can’t be in the same room as Anderson a moment longer. “I’m going for a walk - you man the shop. Cheers for the coffee.” I tip my cup at him and make my way out the door to get lost in the thrum of the city.


	2. kelly green, chipped and faded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spilled coffee, a flustered John and Hobnobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to @eternaljohnlock for beta-ing this chapter - your reaction comments made me giggle and spurred me on during the editing process! :)

It’s still early yet. The lunchtime crowds haven’t started to descend on Portobello Market so I’m able to make my way through the stalls at a leisurely pace, a novelty, to be sure. No cotton tote bags full of organic vegetables hitting my legs as people squeeze through the crowd; no army of mums pushing squalling babies in prams the size of small vehicles; no crowds of American tourists refusing to queue properly. It’s just me and a few old ladies with their shopping trolleys.

I sip my coffee and walk. 

I find walking is the best way to clear my head. It goes back to the endless hours I spent marching in the Army; after awhile my brain just seems to drift and I follow wherever my feet take me. When I first got back to London, I spent long days (and some nights) just wandering the city. If I was walking, taking in the lights and the traffic and the overwhelming reminder that life goes on, then I was able to keep the persistent darkness that lurked in the corners of my mind at bay, I could get up in the morning and face another day. The walking used to drive Mary mental. Years later, the habit is still there.

My stomach gives a soft growl. Now I wish I’d grabbed one of those chocolate croissants on my way out of the shop instead of dashing out to get away from Anderson. If I go back for it, I’d feel guilty leaving again and would just spend the rest of the day annoyed and hiding in my office, worrying over the books.

Run-in with Sherlock Holmes aside, the future of my shop is up in the air. I’ve put off thinking about it for months now, but I think it’s time to admit that we’re a sinking ship and we’re going down quickly. Not that it’s too surprising, really, with me and the world’s worst shop assistant at the helm. But if we fold, which is looking more likely, I have no bloody clue what to do with my life. The future is just a grey mist on the horizon, blurring any and all potential plans beyond recognition. 

John H. Watson, former soldier turned hopeless bookseller turned man with no prospects. Failure at life. 

Caught up in my musings, I’ve forgotten my coffee and now, of course, it’s gone cold. Spotting a bin on the street corner, I wind around a couple walking the opposite way on the pavement and reach out my cup to toss it in the bin and --

It goes flying.

One second the paper cup is in my grasp and the next it’s been knocked out of my hand and there is coffee everywhere. Including on the person I’ve just run into.

“Oh, shit!” It bursts from my mouth before my inherent polite Britishness can kick in. “Pardon me, I am so sorry!” 

The man’s white shirt is dripping with little rivulets of coffee, the brown stain spreading across his abdomen. 

“This is the second time today I’ve witnessed you in a curse-laden outburst,” rumbles a familiar baritone. 

My eyes snap from his shirt to his face. “Oh my god, it’s you.” 

“It is. So we meet again, John.” 

In what seems to be a pattern, I’m caught off guard by him and have trouble formulating a response. I settle on “uh huh”, which is the opposite of how I’d hope to handle this moment. Not that I truly thought I’d be running into Sherlock Holmes for a second time today. 

“Did I do something to offend?” There’s a glint in his eye and thankfully I can hear the humour lacing his words.

I give myself a little shake and open my mouth again, aiming to pull myself together a bit. “Ha. I, uh, no, not intentional. This is, believe it or not, just my typical luck. Meet world famous actor, allow Anderson to chase him from my shop, and then throw coffee on said world famous actor. There really was no possibility of this happening in a manner that was not wholly awkward and mortifying for me and you. So, yes -- sorry again.”

He makes me ramble. Greg is always complaining that he can’t pull more than three words from me and here I am talking absolute floods of nonsense to Sherlock Holmes. I’ve spent this morning alternating between dread and embarrassment in a way I haven’t done since secondary school.

Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to be angry -- about the coffee or my rambling. The now-empty paper cup is at his feet and I scramble to pick it up and toss it in the bin, if only to occupy my hands. A blush is creeping up the back of my neck, my skin feeling warm to the touch as I scrub my hand over it roughly. 

What to do though, how do you make up for spilling coffee on someone, on Sherlock Holmes? I can’t just let him walk away covered in my coffee. 

He’s attempting to wipe some of the liquid off his shirt with the side of his hand, which isn’t helping in the slightest. I cough and say, “While I’m sure you’d love nothing more than to escape this series of unfortunate events, I do live just around the corner if you’d like to get cleaned up. I feel like I should offer at least that.” 

Instead of answering right away, he narrows his eyes and proceeds to do that weird assessing thing he does, which honestly makes my insides squirm a bit, before giving a sharp nod of his head.

“Lead the way,” he says.

And now we’re walking. Together. Towards my flat.

If I had taken more than a second to consider this plan, I would have realised that it was a terrible decision because now I’m faced with the reality that Sherlock Holmes will be inside my flat. With its air of pitiful neglect and desolation, it’s not really a place to bring company - we tend to gather at Greg and Molly’s for dinners and parties - and I’m sure he’s got a ridiculous posh house over in Knightsbridge with a cleaning service and a chef. I try to recall if there are any dirty dishes or clothes left lying about but can’t remember clearly. 

I’ve started to sweat, but I push down my anxiety and stride ahead as if everything is perfectly fine. We continue in silence until we reach my street door. It’s kelly green in colour, once vibrant and glossy but now chipped and faded, and the metal number on the door is slightly crooked. The stairwell seems dimmer than usual as we climb the stairs to the second floor, Sherlock Holmes’s fine leather shoes scuffing softly with each step behind me. It’s silly the things you notice when you’re a ball of nerves and trying to impress. 

“This is me,” I tell him and indicate the door marked with a five. Whenever I see films where the main character fumbles their keys when trying to open the door, I always wonder how it’s possible to be that inept, but it feels like a real possibility right now so force myself to focus as I insert the key into the lock. 

We step inside and stand side by side in the corridor, quiet as he casts his eyes over the space. I try to imagine it from his perspective, seeing it for the first time. Sitting room ahead, somewhat bare but lived in; a soft armchair with a tartan throw over the back and crowded bookshelves along one wall. Small eat-in kitchen to the left with a gateleg table for two that normally seats only one. A corridor, light wood, stretching to the right, leading to my bedroom, a bathroom and a cupboard that houses a bike that was a 35th birthday present and hasn’t been taken out in ages. 

“It’s not much, but it’s home.” He raises an eyebrow at me and I force my lips into a smile. “Loo’s down there on the right.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he steps away to clean himself up.

While he’s in the bathroom, I quickly scan the sitting room and kitchen for any mess or things I’d rather not have seen by the man down the hall, and then head to my bedroom. There’s not much he can actually do to sort his coffee-stained shirt so I dig through my dresser and pull out the newest white t-shirt that I have. 

I hesitate at the bathroom door and then rap softly on the frosted glass. “Mr. Holmes?” 

The door opens and a head of dark curls appears around it. “It’s Sherlock.”

“Right. Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Oh, I, uh, just thought you might like something else to wear. None of my shirts will fit you, unless you don’t mind busting out of it like the hulk.” Poor attempt at humour, Watson. “Err. . . but I’ve got a t-shirt here. Better than nothing, I suppose.”

He contemplates the shirt and then reaches a hand out to take it from me before retreating behind the door. Exhaling deeply, I head back to the kitchen and pop the kettle on out of habit. It’s just about boiled when I hear the bathroom door open again.

Sherlock appears in the doorway of the kitchen. He’s holding his jacket and shirt over his right arm and wearing a sardonic smirk on his face. “I won’t be winning any best dressed awards for this look, but at least I won’t have to attend to business this afternoon smelling of old coffee. Thank you for the t-shirt.”

Perhaps if the t-shirt had been black he would have looked casually elegant, but as it is, he has a half-dressed look about him in his fine wool trousers and my basic white t-shirt bought in a multipack at Sainsbury’s. Not to mention the fact that the t-shirt is far too small, the sleeves are stretched around his biceps and the hem barely meets the waistband of his trousers. 

I find myself momentarily distracted. Obviously Sherlock Holmes is a very attractive person; he has made a career playing beautiful characters on screen and posing for photographs for all the big magazines. And that was all fine because it wasn’t connected in any way to my life. Now, however, Sherlock Holmes is standing in my kitchen, wearing my too-small t-shirt and looking like that. No one should be allowed to walk around looking like he does. It’s just not fair, and it’s far more than I can be expected to handle. 

Dragging my eyes away from where they linger on his shoulders, I attempt a nonchalant shrug. “Least I could do, really. Fancy a cuppa? If you don’t need to rush away, that is -- or coffee, if you’d prefer? Well, maybe not, considering. . .” I gesture vaguely at his torso and then frantically scan my kitchen for something else to offer. “Hobnob?”

Sherlock smiles at that and I feel like I’ve accomplished something. “Tea would be nice.”

“Oh, yes. Of course!” I flick the kettle to boil again and grab two cups from the draining board. “How do you take it?”

“Milk and one sugar.”

“Coming right up.” I scoop a teaspoon of sugar from the jar on the counter and tip it into the blue one with an image of Woodstock from the Peanuts on the side and then add a tea bag to both cups. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Sherlock set his jacket and shirt across the back of my usual chair, pull it out from the table and settle his long limbs onto it. I pour water into each cup and replace the kettle.

While the tea steeps, I lean back against the counter and attempt to make conversation, although I’ve proven to be rubbish at that. “Are you thinking of doing some travelling?”

“Pardon?”

“Just. . . you came into my shop, so I thought you might be looking to travel? Seems to be why most people visit. Well, except for those odd few who ignore the shop’s name and come in searching for the latest novel by E. L. James, if you can call it that. Novel seems like too grand a title for those books. . .”

“I would agree with you, but I have absolutely no idea who that is.”

“Count yourself lucky -- for awhile it seemed like every woman on the Tube was reading that book, 50 Shades of Grey, and once I knew what it was about, I would avoid anyone holding it out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.”

“Oh?” Sherlock sounds curious, and then with a glint in his eye, asks, “And what is it about?”

Apparently this is where my life has led: to sitting in my kitchen in the middle of the day describing the world’s worst book to Sherlock bloody Holmes. Shit. 

He’s looking at me expectantly, though, so I feel like I need to answer. I clear my throat, “Well, it’s, um. . . breathtakingly atrocious in content and style, full of misconceptions about, er, BDSM, and it romanticises abuse. Apparently. I haven’t actually read it.”

“So I wouldn’t find it lurking amongst all those books in the other room then?”

“No. No, absolutely not.”

“Mmm.” Which is most definitely not the reply you want to hear from a famous actor who may or may not be judging you for knowing about 50 Shades of Grey. 

I fish the tea bags out of the cups and put a drop of milk in Sherlock’s before depositing it on the table in front of him, setting my own plain grey cup on the table and taking the seat opposite. 

“So, travel?” I prod, trying to get this conversation back on track.

Sherlock gives me a knowing smile but thankfully doesn’t ask any more questions about that blasted book. “Yes and no. I will be travelling soon, but unfortunately it is for business and not pleasure. I have a project starting next month and filming will take me to a few different locations.”

“Must be a perk of the job though.”

“It can be.”

“Will you be going to Afghanistan?” 

“No, not this time.” Sherlock takes a sip of his tea and doesn’t say anything more. Perhaps it isn’t polite to ask too many questions about a celebrity’s upcoming project so I cast about for another topic of conversation, but Sherlock beats me to it.

“You said earlier that owning a bookshop isn’t the normal route for an ex-soldier, which I suppose is true if one is only considering society’s narrow expectations for how life should play out. . .” he pauses, eyes focused out the window over the sink, and takes a sip of his tea. “You were clearly well regarded, most likely moving up in rank quite quickly -- even after you were wounded, surely the Army could have found a place for you away from active duty. Perhaps they did but you turned it down.”

By the time he finishes, it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. Talking about the war always produces a physiological stress response in me, even when I am well aware that I am in a safe place, away from any further threat to my body. It has lessened with time, and a massive effort from my therapist, but even now I can feel the tension running through my body - stiff shoulders, elbows drawn in, clenched jaw. 

No one asks me about my experiences in Afghanistan because I’ve made it clear to those who know me that it is off limits to them, an area of my life where they’re not invited. Sherlock, however, seems to have invited himself right in and has no qualms in talking about it. I’d say he was guessing, but he’s not been wrong about any of it, and I’d marvel at his incredible ability to read my life by simply looking at me if I wasn’t so thrown.

I clear my throat and try to figure out how to respond. There are things I won’t talk about, but my journey to opening the bookshop seems like it is distant enough from the memories of the Army that I may be able to discuss it. 

“Full marks for that summary.” As always, I aim for humour, but it falls flat. “You’re right though, I did turn it down -- I didn’t want to finish my Army career stuck behind a desk. But the shop was the result of a series of odd events really. Not precisely where I’d envisioned myself, maybe, but I’d always loved books. I mean, each one can take you somewhere new; there’s adventure and intrigue, beauty and loss on each page. What a way to learn about the world. Plus books are blissfully silent companions so I can’t think of a better way to spend my days.” That last bit was technically inaccurate considering the current state of the shop, but he didn’t have to know about my business struggles. 

“The books may be silent, but that employee of yours certainly is not.” Sherlock looks thoughtful. “I’d apologise for the way I spoke to him this morning, but I believe that’s highly unnecessary.”

“I certainly wasn’t waiting for you to apologise about Anderson. I mean, I spend most of his shifts insulting him in my head, so it was rather a relief to hear someone say it out loud to be honest.”

Sherlock’s laughter is warm and inviting and I find myself smiling along with him, the atmosphere in the room lifting, allowing me to breathe easily again. 

“Speaking of Anderson, I should probably get back to the shop soon. Don’t like to leave him alone too long or we’ll never sell another book.” I say, but really I don't want to leave or for Sherlock to go. 

“He does seem to have a way of putting one off lingering in the shop.”

“Indeed -- and you have firsthand experience of it. Actually, I should probably be the one apologising to you for, well, his complete. . . nincompoopery.”

Sherlock grins. “No need to apologise. I find that to be the norm for most people. You are an exception to the nincompoop rule.” 

I’m caught off guard by his compliment as Sherlock Holmes does not seem the type to employ flattery. I stare at him as he finishes his tea. 

“Hobnob for the road?” he asks, surprising me yet again. 

I bark out a laugh and then realise he’s serious so I push back from the table and go to retrieve the packet from the counter. When I return to the table, he’s slipped on his suit jacket and buttoned the middle button. Stained shirt and coat hanging over a forearm, he reaches out to select a Hobnob and then heads to the front door.

“Goodbye, John.” He extends the hand not occupied by the Hobnob and I find my own dwarfed in his grip. Releasing my fingers, he steps through the door and heads down the stairs. I watch him for a moment, close the door and proceed to lean against it, arms extended and palms pressing into the wood to ground myself a bit.

Today has been a lot and it’s only just gone noon. 

I give Sherlock a fifteen minute headstart in order to avoid running into him yet again and giving the impression that I’m a total creep who is following him. On my walk back to work, I try to put him out of my mind. . . and I’m as successful as you’d probably imagine. 

There is a giddiness threatening to bubble up inside me and I find myself wanting to tell passers-by that a bonafide celebrity came round to my flat and I managed, with some effort, not to make a complete fool out of myself in his presence. (Considering his cheekbones and that voice, I think that’s all anyone would ask of me.) The words dance on my tongue -- “You, there! Group of women entering the cafe, do you know of Sherlock Holmes? Because if you do, then I’m about to make you so jealous!”

That would be absurd, I know, but I’m still tempted. Nothing like this ever happens to me. 

And yet.

And yet it did. I met Sherlock Holmes and I think he rather liked me. 

That’s a bizarre notion to consider really. I don’t even know if my mates like me that much -- sometimes I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re merely putting up with me, especially lately. And besides, would Sherlock Holmes actually like an ordinary person like me? We seem to be different species, possibly even from different kingdoms farther up the taxonomic rank, too far removed to have any of the same biologic functions. 

I give in and allow myself to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. 

At least I’ll have a good story to tell at Harry’s birthday dinner this weekend.


	3. oddly specific and vastly different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John survives the week, it's Harry's birthday, and a surprise customer visits the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read, left kudos and commented on this fic so far. It's been so much fun to write and I hope you continue to enjoy it!
> 
> My updates have been completely erratic and I imagine they will continue to be that way. So...hope you like random surprise updates!
> 
> Thanks to @eternaljohnlock and @shylockgnomes for being lovely betas for this chapter!

By the next morning, my life seems to have settled back into its ordinary pattern. I wake up, I blearily stumble through breakfast, I go to work, put up with Anderson, and occasionally sell some books. 

On Thursday evening, when the shops are open later, I spend a couple hours searching for a good birthday gift for Harry. She’s always been impossible to buy for, but there seems to be added pressure this year since she’s turning thirty. After looking in seven different stores, I finally settle on a backpack handbag thing that the saleswoman convinced me was cool. It’s vegan, of course -- I learned my lesson last time I gave her something leather. Then I pick up some her favourite Faber-Castell pens, which seems like a cop out, but I know she’ll appreciate it because she’s constantly losing them. I contemplate a bottle of fizz, but that’s just asking for trouble and there will be enough booze at Greg and Molly’s as it is. On my way home, I buy a gift bag so I can avoid wrapping anything in paper and a simple birthday card, which I sign ‘love, Johnny’ when I get home and toss it in the bag with the gifts. 

Somehow I survive to the end of the week and on Friday night, in true Watson style, I drink a couple beers and fall asleep in front of the telly while watching the documentary _Batman & Bill _. I wake up squinting on Saturday morning, glaring sunlight shining on my face because I forgot to close the curtains last night and my shoulder and back are stiff from spending the night passed out in the armchair.

Thankfully the shop opens an hour later today so I have what feels like a leisurely morning at home. I take a long shower, allowing myself a wank as the warm water flows over my shoulders and down between my legs. After I’ve dried off and dressed, I realise that one of my contact lenses has a tear so I put on my glasses instead and make a mental note to order more. Then I attempt to prepare a proper breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and a cafetiere of real coffee, and I eat, not standing over the sink as I prepare to dash out the door, but sitting at the table while reading the news on my tablet. 

On my way into work, I buy something for lunch and stop by Printworks Coffee to indulge in an overpriced cappuccino because I made it to the weekend. 

“John, hi!” 

I’ve barely stepped inside when Janine’s loud and perky greeting hits me. I give her what feels like a pained smile as I approach the counter. 

“I haven’t seen you for ages! You want your usual?” she asks, grinning back at me. 

“Yes, please.” The thing I like about Janine is that she seems happy to carry most of the conversation with minimal input from me. My lack of enthusiasm does nothing to stop the onslaught of chatter that comes my way any time I enter the coffeeshop. 

“Anything for you,” she says with a wink, tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder and turning to the coffee machine to start my drink.

My lack of enthusiasm doesn’t stop her from blatantly hitting on me every time I come in either. She even flirts via Anderson, which is even weirder -- I don’t want Anderson to be involved in any part of my love life, especially not playing some sort of Chinese whispers matchmaker. He’s endlessly disappointed that I don’t take her out, despite my numerous attempts to make it clear to him that I’m not interested. I think this is mainly because he’d like to date her himself and living vicariously through me is the next best thing.

I realise that Janine has been talking at me while making my cappuccino and I’ve not taken in any of it. She seems to be finishing a story about her flatmate’s new job at a bar in Soho so I tune back in to hear her say “. . . and the other night the drummer from that band, you know, the one that was just on the Graham Norton Show, came in with a bunch of his friends and after serving them drinks all night, she went and partied with them at their hotel and they gave her tickets to their gig tonight.”

I have no idea what band she’s talking about and I haven’t watched the Graham Norton Show in years, so I just nod and try to look interested.

“So have you got plans?”

“Wait, what?” I’ve clearly missed something here.

She hands me my drink and giggles. “Tonight, silly. Do you have plans or would you want to go with me to the concert?”

Oh, god, she really doesn’t give up. Thankfully, I don’t even have to make up an excuse this time. “Sorry, Janine. I’ve got plans -- it’s my sister’s birthday so we’re going to celebrate. Have a great time though.”

She looks crestfallen for a second and then perks back up again, “Well, maybe next time.”

I mumble something indistinct as I hand over a couple quid for the coffee.

“Well, see ya.”

“Bye, John. I hope you have a good day at the shop and if you need another hit of caffeine, you know where to find me!”

I make my escape from the coffeeshop as quickly as I can and head over to open up my shop for the morning, unlocking the security gate outside the main door with one hand, pushing the wrought iron doors back to meet the exterior wall. I kick some rubbish from the entry where it’s collected, having blown in overnight, and unlock the door, the bell greeting me happily as I enter. 

Saturdays are usually a peaceful reprieve after a long week -- the only day I’m in the shop alone, just me and my books. An odd customer will wander in, usually browse amongst the shelves, occasionally buy something, and then depart, leaving behind nothing but flecks of dust shifting in the sunlight and the sound of the traffic outside, muffled and distorted through the glass.

I like the shop best like this. When it’s slow and warm and I can meander through my day in a strange, content bubble.

Today I feel like I should do more than straighten the books and clean the shelves, however, so I sit at the counter and pore over a rather pathetic list of ideas for our next sales push that Anderson and I compiled during a lull yesterday. I cross out every other idea. So many of them sounded moderately doable when I wrote them down, but now I recognise them to be completely useless. I blame Anderson. Setting it aside as a bad job, I push my glasses up my nose and retrieve a couple of boxes from our latest shipment, preparing to do a stock check and get the books out onto the shelves.

The next hour or so passes without incident -- and without customers. I collapse the now-empty boxes, books mostly out on their correct shelves, and I bind them with twine before setting them outside the shop to be collected by the binmen. I have a list of a few titles to re-order, which I leave by my computer in the office to be ordered at some future time when I can be bothered logging onto the system.

On my way out of the office, I grab my lunch - a meal deal from Boots -- and return to the counter. I slide over the stack of new guidebooks about Senegal to ensure they remain unmarked by any flying bits of food. My sandwich is rather limp and unappetising, but seeing as I can’t go out to find a replacement meal unless I want to close the shop, I push through and finish it. I’m just reaching for the packet of crisps (should have gone for the fruit option really, not getting any younger, but I’m a sucker for crisps in any way at any time -- total guilty pleasure), when the bell above the door rings to announce a customer, or perhaps just a lost tourist.

I quickly wipe my hands off, just in case it’s the former and my services are actually needed, before looking up to offer a greeting. 

Just inside the door stands Sherlock. 

“Sherlock! Hi!” Surprise doesn’t even come close. Gone is the suit from the other day and instead he’s wearing slim jeans, a navy button-down shirt tucked in at the waist and rolled up to his elbows, and brown leather Chelsea boots. Less formidable, yes, but no less intimidating.

“Hello, John,” he rumbles, stepping closer to the counter.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” I rush out, slightly breathless. “Err, not that it isn’t nice to see you, of course. You’re welcome any time.” 

“Thank you for that open invitation to pop by -- I may just take you up on that.” His grey eyes dance with mischief. “However, in this instance, I’ve come in to return this.” 

It’s then that I notice that he’s holding a parcel in his hand, which he places on the counter between us.

“Your t-shirt, from the other day. I’ve had it cleaned.”

I honestly want to laugh because it’s so absurd that Sherlock has had my cheap t-shirt dry cleaned and then came across the city to return it to me. I could have bought a new shirt for the price of his Tube fare. (Does someone like Sherlock take the Tube?) But the fact that he would go through such trouble is also incredibly sweet. 

I grin at him instead. “Thank you.”

“It’s the polite thing to do, no, when someone lends you one of their belongings.”

I’m not sure if he’s asking me or telling me. But I state my agreement anyway, “It is. No one will fault your manners.”

“There is a long list of publicists, journalists, directors and actors who would disagree with you vehemently.”

“They’re idiots.”

Sherlock laughs, delighted. “You’re not wrong.”

Silence falls and we just look at each other for a minute. When I’m certain he’s working up to make his excuses and leave, he instead asks, “No nuisance of an assistant today?”

“No, I’m on my own on Saturdays.”

“Well, then. Perhaps I will browse a bit then. By the way, the glasses suit you.” And with that, he strolls away around the corner and into the section of the shop dedicated to Oceania. 

I force myself to stay behind the counter. To do anything else would be driven by the sheer giddiness and crushing anxiety of having Sherlock simply browsing travel books in my shop. I’m dreadfully tempted to run back into my office to watch the CCTV to see what he’s doing, but that would be pathetic and creepy. I look down at my list and decide that I can’t focus on it, so I begin to tidy and organise behind the counter, starting with putting away the remnants of my half-eaten lunch.

I’ve aligned everything on the counter into neat piles, sorted through a stack of receipts and other bits of paper, untangled a pile of paperclips that have been to the right of the till for weeks, and arranged the ledgers under the counter into chronological order by the time I hear him again twenty minutes later. 

Sherlock makes his way back towards me, arms laden with books, pausing every so often to look at something on one of shelves. He picks up one more before depositing the whole lot onto the counter. I look down at the pile in bewilderment. This will probably be the biggest sale I’ve had in months.

“Um, did you find everything?”

“I believe I did,” Sherlock says, fingers tapping a light cadence on the edge of the counter.

I begin ringing up his purchases, which include a historical linguistic book on Polynesian languages, one about colonialism in Papua New Guinea, another about tā moko, the traditional tattooing practices of the Maori, and I’m just about to ring up the Kon Tiki Expedition by Thor Heyerdahl, when Sherlock says “oh, one more” and darts off across the shop again.

I continue to ring up the final few books in Sherlock’s pile, marvelling at the oddly specific and vastly different array of subjects he’s managed to cover, when he sets down one final book on the counter.

It’s the one I suggested to him the first time he came in -- the book about conflict and military interventions in Afghanistan.

“To make up for leaving before I could buy it the other day.”

My throat feels strangely tight, so I just nod and ring it through, adding it to be bag containing the rest of his purchases.

The total is a rather obscene amount, at least compared to my normal sales, but he hands over his credit card without hesitation, punching in his pin code after I’ve entered the details in the chip-and-pin machine, which, thankfully, has decided to cooperate today.

I hand him back his card and a receipt. “Here you go, you’re all --”

“Dinner?”

At first I think I’m hearing things, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Pardon?”

A look of sudden misapprehension flickers across his face. “Would you like to go to dinner? With me?” 

My heart stutters. “Wow, I. . .I would, yes.” 

Sherlock smiles and it’s when he opens his mouth to reply, perhaps to suggest a restaurant, that I suddenly remember that, of course, this is the one evening this week when I actually have plans. 

“Oh, no. Shittity-brickity, it’s my sister’s birthday today and we’re meant to be having dinner.” I have never wanted to celebrate Harry’s birthday less, and then I feel like complete shit for even thinking that. I’ve always been a crap big brother. 

“Right, of course.”

“I’m sure I can get out of it.”

“No, John. I understand, familial duty calls.” It may be my nerves being stretched thin in this moment, but I imagine that he looks particularly dejected, like this is not how he’d wanted or expected this interaction to go at all, but then he looks speculative, eyes traveling over my face, and says, “Unless. . .”

“Unless?”

“Unless I was to go with you. . . as your date?”

“Date?” My brain has apparently gone offline and I can’t comprehend this conversation anymore.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, looking exasperated yet fond. “Yes, John, a date -- it's where two people who like each other go out and have fun? Which, in this case, will include spending the evening with your sister in order to honour her birthday, where she’ll undoubtedly drink too much, your friends will tell embarrassing stories from your younger years, you’ll wish you hadn’t brought me, and I shall enjoy every minute.”

Sherlock is smiling softly at me and butterflies erupt in my stomach. “Well, when you put it that way, how could I resist?”

We arrange to meet back at the shop when I close up at six this evening in order to walk over to Greg and Molly’s. And I manage to not trip over my feet or my words as we finalise the plan. He hefts the carrier bag containing a veritable hoard of books into his hand and makes his way through the door, throwing a “Until later, John” over his shoulder. The bell above the door rings mournfully over his departure.

I have five hours to kill and I have no idea how I’m going to survive it. Five hours and then I have a date with Sherlock Holmes. The realisation is overwhelming and I need to sit down on the stool behind the counter for a few minutes to catch my breath. 

Rubbing my hands over my thighs, I prepare to stand up and do something moderately productive, when I remember that I had planned on running home after work to change before Harry’s party, which I now will not have time to do. And I certainly cannot go to dinner wearing a worn and rumpled blue Oxford and brown corduroy trousers, the combination no doubt giving me the air of a poor literature professor who finds his clothing at charity shops. Sherlock will look fantastic in whatever he wears, so I can’t look schlumpy in comparison. 

There’s nothing for it, I’ll just need to go home. I rush back to the office, grab my keys to lock up and then head back to the flat. I fire off a text to Greg as I walk, informing him that I'm bringing someone to dinner. Seems rude to show up with a date unannounced. 

A couple minutes later my phone chirps with his reply. ⟪Well done, mate! Who is the lucky bird?⟫

I cringe slightly at his assumption, but it's not completely surprising, I've only been with women since Greg's known me -- first Mary and then a few girlfriends, none of whom lasted longer than two months. 

I decide I can't deal with explaining right now and text back ⟪No one you know.⟫

⟪Look at you being all mysterious!⟫

⟪I'm not gossiping with you while I'm at work. Aren't you supposed to be out keeping London safe?⟫

His reply comes a few minutes later. ⟪I can multitask. Molly is thrilled for you, by the way -- expect to be interrogated tonight.⟫

⟪As long as you give me wine first.⟫

⟪A glass will be in your hand when you step through the door, mate. See you later!⟫

I send a goodbye, pocket my phone and then spend far too long selecting an outfit for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> \- _Batman & Bill_ is a documentary about Bill Finger who was excluded as co-creator of Batman. I actually know nothing about DC comics, but it sounded interesting!
> 
> \- Printworks Coffee is actually the name of a coffeeshop in Edinburgh, not London, but I walk passed it every day on the way to work and just wanted to use the name in the story.
> 
> \- Janine’s name was originally Eileen in chapter one (it's since been changed), but I decided to use canon names for characters despite her not playing a similar role to her BBC Sherlock counterpart. Anyway, Eileen is now Janine and shall be for the remainder of the story - although she may not feature much more. 
> 
> \- Chinese whispers is the British term for the game telephone that children play. As an American, I was really uncomfortable when I first heard it used because of it’s undoubtedly racist origins, but I assume this is how John would refer to the game so it’s in the story.


	4. let those rumours fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John introduces Sherlock to his friends at Harry's birthday dinner. And. . . Hobnobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was...a challenge, and it turned into a bit of a behemoth. I hope you enjoy reading it and that all my fretting was worth it in the end!
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely betas @shylockgnomes, @eternaljohnlock and @zigster-ao3 - you are all wonderful!

At twenty to six that evening, I give up pretending to work and lock the door from the inside. No customers had come into the shop in over an hour and any that attempt to come in are now no longer my priority. The clothing I have selected is hanging on the back of the door in my office, waiting. Despite long deliberations earlier this afternoon, I’m still not sure that I have made the right choice. I’ve always been rubbish at dressing with any kind of style; I’m much more of a jumper man usually, but if I’m going on a date with Sherlock Holmes, then I’d better up my game. 

(It still sounds absolutely mad when I say that in my head -- _I’m going on a date with Sherlock Holmes._ I even practiced saying it out loud a couple of times just to see if that helped make sense of it. It didn’t.)

With a sense of nervous anticipation, I ditch my work clothes, stripping down to my pants in the middle of the office, and toss them over the back of the chair. The shirt I've chosen is navy with a white floret pattern that looks like polka dots from farther away; it's trendier than I would normally wear -- possibly because Harry chose it. I guess it's appropriate that I wear it for her birthday tonight. It’s properly tailored as well, sitting closer to my body than the shirt I had on earlier and making me very conscious of my mid-section. Any definition from my years in the Army has long since disappeared.

I slip on my trousers -- some rusty brown chinos that the lady in the shop convinced me to buy -- and do up a simple brown belt. I forego my usual scuffed brown shoes for the only pair of dress shoes I own, a pair of deep mahogany Oxfords. I deliberated for ages about taking a jacket, but couldn’t decide on one, so opted to go without. Thankfully, it’s warm enough today for just a shirt.

I think I look okay -- without a full length mirror it’s hard to know for sure. I pop into the tiny loo to get a look at my hair and force it into some sort of style. As I’m flicking one stubborn lock back into place, I hear a soft tap on the glass of the door and my insides suddenly tumble in a frenzy. Sherlock is here.

Taking a few calming breaths, I grab my phone, wallet and keys off my desk and shove them into my pockets before I leave the safety of my office.

He is just a dark shape standing in the doorway, backlit by the sun dropping in the sky. Not being able to see his face or assess the look in his eyes makes it somewhat easier to go open the door. I turn my keys in the lock, pull it open, and Sherlock steps over the threshold.

“Hi,” I say, tentatively. Sherlock’s eyes are roaming over my body and I know he’s judging my outfit. Damnit. He looks fantastic, of course -- grey suit, simple and expertly tailored, white shirt open at the neck, same boots as earlier in the day and one of those pocket squares that I've never been able to pull off. And he’s holding a bouquet of gorgeous sunflowers. 

He finally meets my eye and there’s a flash of something I can’t quite place in his. “Hello,” he says. “For your sister.” He gives a slight shrug to indicate the flowers. 

An awkward silence falls between us because I don’t quite know what to do with the fact that Sherlock brought something to give to Harry. 

“Good manners,” I say after a while, referencing our earlier conversation, and Sherlock lips quirk into a half-smile. “You ready to go?”

“It’s not quite six yet -- are you going to close up early?” He asks this so earnestly that it shakes the nervousness from me and the excitement takes over. 

“To be honest, Sherlock, I really couldn’t care less.” 

He looks at me for a moment, eyes curious. “I’m ready if you are.”

“I really am.” I say this in response to his statement, but it also seems to hold a bigger meaning in my head. This will be the first time I’ve ever brought a guy to meet my friends. It’s a big step and one that is a long time coming. While I’m worried about how this might play out, I actually think the fact that he’s Sherlock Holmes will be the bigger shock than the fact that he’s a man.

I grab Harry’s gift bag off the counter and Sherlock and I head out the door.

Greg and Molly live just over half a mile from my shop in a narrow Georgian Terrace spread across three floors. The exterior is painted a muted olive green, which would be absolutely lovely if it wasn’t framed by a shockingly pink house on the left and a bright yellow house on the right. The combination is enough to make one feel ill. Sherlock looks slightly taken aback as we approach the pink house. “Don’t worry, we’re going to that one,” I say, nodding towards the house next door. He nods approvingly and we mount the stairs to the front door.

With a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock. Usually I’d go right in, but something about tonight requires a knock.

A few seconds later, the white door opens to reveal Molly, looking flushed and harried. Some misadventure in the kitchen, I assume, based on the splattered apron she’s wearing. 

“Oh, John, hi!” She smiles at me and then her gaze shifts to Sherlock standing behind me and I can see the moment she recognises who he is because her eyes go comically wide. I completely understand her reaction. 

“Hey, Mols.” I lean in to kiss her cheek and then step to the side so I can introduce him. “This is Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” she says, a bit breathlessly, and then valiantly tries to pull it together. “I mean, hi and welcome! Please come --”

“Johnny!” Greg’s shout interrupts her and then he suddenly appears in the door.

“Hi, Greg.” I reach to grasp his hand briefly. “Er, I was just introducing Molly to Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Molly and Greg.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Well, I’ll be damned.” Greg shakes Sherlock’s hand as well and then turns back to me. “Johnny, I thought you were bringing a date, not a celebrity!”

This statement goes off like a bomb and the silence that follows is deafening. My hands curl reflexively into fists, I can feel Sherlock stiffen beside me and Molly is looking at Greg in horror.

“He did.” Sherlock’s tone is icy. I’m reminded of how he reacted to Anderson the first day we met, and I want nothing more than to head off any altercation. 

Thankfully, lovely Molly steps in to keep the peace. “Exactly, his date just happens to be a celebrity, right, John?” She gives me a smile and an encouraging nod.

I clear my throat and meet Greg’s eye. “Yes, Sherlock is my date.” 

“Oh. That’s. . . good, really. It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock.” Greg looks thoroughly abashed and like he just wants to escape.

“And you, Graham.” His eyes are laser-focused, reserved and assessing. 

“Er, it's Greg.”

Sherlock merely hums to indicate that he's heard. 

Molly interjects, “Well, let’s go inside and wait for the others to arrive. Greg, maybe you could get them a drink? What do you guys want?” 

We all shuffle inside and Sherlock asks for a glass of red wine. While I really want a double whisky, I follow Sherlock’s lead and ask for wine as well. After Greg’s gone into the kitchen to get the drinks, Molly turns to us and says earnestly, “I’m so sorry, John -- I think he just wasn’t thinking. Not that that’s an excuse, but if it makes you feel any better, I’m fairly sure he’s beating himself up over it in the kitchen.”

“Mmm. Probably.” I feel bloody awful, too, not so much for me but for Sherlock. What a shit way to start our date. He catches my eye and we exchange a look that conveys a million things at once -- _are you okay, I’m okay, this is so awkward, go get him, I’ll stay with you, you need to go_. Once this silent conversation has ended, I flick my head towards the kitchen, “I’ll go help him with the drinks. No fangirling while I’m gone, okay, Mols?”

She laughs and next to her, I can see Sherlock exhale slowly. I shoot them both a wink and then go to the kitchen to rescue Greg from his self-flagellation. 

Molly was right. He’s standing at the counter, four glasses of wine already poured, just holding the bottle in his hands and staring blindly at it. “Need a hand, mate?”

His head jerks up and he looks at me, eyes beseeching. “Fuck, John. I am so sorry. What kind of shit friend am I?”

I shrug. “Well, I didn’t exactly warn you or. . . ever say ‘oh, by the way, I’m bisexual’, so I guess I’m not surprised that you’re surprised.”

“You know it’s fine, right? Girls, guys, whatever, it’s all fine.”

“Er, thanks, Greg.” I rub the back of my neck, uncomfortable with any kind of heart-to-heart. “And sorry to just spring this on you.”

Greg shakes his head and looks at me hard. “No, mate, you don’t apologise for being you.” With that he pulls me into a hug, and I have to admit that it feels really good. Despite being in a stereotypically masculine profession, Greg is a very open, loving person and his acceptance means a lot. I hold onto him for another second and then pull away.

“Okay, let’s get these drinks out there.”

“Wait, just one thing.”

I turn to him, nerves trickling back in. “Yeah?”

He leans towards me and lowers his voice. “Sherlock Holmes, Johnny boy? Holy shit!”

The blush explodes across my face and I shoot a disbelieving grin at Greg. “I know, Greg. I fucking know.” 

Greg’s booming laugh echoes off the kitchen cabinets and I giggle along with him. Eventually we pull ourselves together, collect the wine glasses from the counter and make our way back to the sitting room.

Molly and Sherlock are seated on the sofa, chatting. He looks relaxed, thank god, and Molly is containing her excitement remarkably well with only a slight flush staining her cheeks to give her away. Passing Sherlock his glass of wine, I sit on the sofa next to him and try to pick up the thread of the conversation. 

They seem to be discussing bloodborne pathogens for some strange reason, and I’m suddenly reminded of a Health and Safety training I took when I opened up the shop. They’re throwing around various scientific terms that go quickly over my head, but Greg joins in, supplementing the medical discussion with details from a couple cases he’s worked on with the Met. I sit and watch them chat, sipping my wine and feeling more at ease now after a slightly bumpy start to the evening. 

After awhile, the conversation is interrupted by the doorbell. I rise to answer it so they can keep chatting. It’s Mike and his wife Nicola and I receive hugs from them both as they enter.

“Just in time to join the bloodborne pathogen chat,” I tell Mike as I send them into the sitting room so I can hang up Nicola’s coat. There is an eruption of voices as introductions are made and drinks orders are placed. I’m secretly glad to be avoiding this part but also feel bad leaving Sherlock on his own to be introduced to my friends. 

I’ve just put Nicola’s coat in the small cupboard and shut the door, when there’s a sharp knock on the door. I pull it open again to reveal Harry. She’s wearing a slinky blue dress with a wild fascinator and she lights up as soon as she sees me.

“Johnny! Give me a kiss -- it’s my birthday!”

I give her a smacking kiss on the cheek and then pull her in for a hug. “Happy birthday, Harriet. You’re officially old.”

She smacks me in the arm. “At least I’m not as old as you!”

“Yeah, well, give it a few years. Come on, everyone’s already here.” I lead her by the hand to the sitting room and a cheer goes up when Harry enters. She’s engulfed by hugs from all sides and when she emerges, fascinator slightly askew, she’s standing in front of me and Sherlock.

“Harry, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is my baby sister, Harry.”

“Fuck me. You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock looks amused. “I am indeed. It's lovely to meet you, Harry.”

She looks at him, eyes boggling and then stage-whispers to me, “Johnny, why the fuck is Sherlock Holmes at my birthday party?” This gets a chuckle from everyone, including Sherlock.

“I told him I was attending your party tonight and he insisted on coming with me. Couldn’t keep him away, not sure what that’s all about.” 

“Hmm. While technically true, perhaps a little context might be helpful,” Sherlock says. Everyone is staring at me. 

“Yeah, how did you meet?” Greg asks.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and gestures for me to explain.   
“Erm. . . right. Well, Sherlock visited the shop earlier this week.”

I know they’re not going to let me get away with that and I’m proven right when I’m met with five identical expressions of ‘and?’ plus Sherlock’s look of barely controlled amusement. “Fine, and then we met when I spilled coffee on him by accident, and Sherlock was so taken by my bumbling attempts to apologise that he turned up at the shop today to ask me out. And, of course, I already had plans and tried to let him down gently, but instead of being put off, he just invited himself along. See, couldn’t keep him away!”

Mike laughs. “I buy the bumbling and coffee-spilling, mate. The rest of it seems a little far fetched.”

“He did leave out a few bits of this story. In truth, it was the Hobnobs that won me over,” Sherlock adds, taking a sip of his wine.

“Is that. . . a euphemism?” Greg asks, a perplexed look on his face.

“No! I offered him a Hobnob.”

“Definitely a euphemism,” Harry pipes up and I’m blushing again. 

“Hey, I didn’t offer him _my_ hobnob. I offered him _a_ Hobnob. Big difference.” This only seems to make things worse and everyone is laughing, while I want to crawl under the sofa.

Molly finally interjects, “Wait, so what is the actual story about the Hobnobs?”

“You take this one,” I mutter to Sherlock and go to retrieve my wine. I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of it to get me through this evening.

Sherlock shrugs, as if he’s unaffected, except for the fact that his cheeks are stained pink as well. “After I was covered in coffee, John felt bad and offered me use of the loo at his flat to get cleaned up. He was then utterly charming with is hospitality, offering me every refreshment in his kitchen including ‘Hobnobs?’” He says the last word in a nearly perfect impersonation of me, which sets everyone off again and I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that he’s a brilliant actor.

“Okay, okay. Enough about the bloody Hobnobs! I was a disaster, Sherlock still asked me out for some reason, and now we’re here. End of story.” 

Sherlock steps up beside me and holds out the sunflowers to Harry, ‘These are for you. Happy birthday, Harry.” While he’s talking his left hand settles gently on my lower back and I’m so glad that everyone is focused on the flowers in that moment because I shiver visibly at the contact. Sherlock slants his eyes over to me and I give him a quick smile, stepping a bit closer to him and leaning back into the reassuring pressure of his hand. The butterflies have returned.

Molly and Harry disappear into the kitchen to put the flowers in water, Molly calling over her shoulder that dinner will be ready soon. Greg jumps to attention and herds the rest of us towards the dining table, where he leaves us in order to help Molly in the kitchen. 

Sherlock and I sit down next to Mike and Nicola and Sherlock takes control of the conversation, politely enquiring about their lines of work. In the short time I’ve known him, he doesn’t strike me as particularly social, but he seems perfectly happy to chat and ask questions tonight. I like listening to the deep rumbling of his voice next to me. His laugh is surprisingly high pitched, however, and it makes me smile every time I hear it.

Both Mike and Nicola seem completely unfazed by Sherlock’s celebrity status and Nicola is currently in the middle of a story about one of her Year 5 pupil’s increasingly ridiculous excuses for not having her homework completed. Mike is watching her adoringly as she talks, gesturing for emphasis. Sherlock’s is laughing politely and asking questions that keep her chatting. 

Soon Molly, Greg and Harry return from the kitchen, bearing an assortment of dishes between them and passing them out around the table. Conversation dies while everyone loads up their plates with chicken, roasted potatoes, salad and warm brown bread. 

As Harry’s big brother, I feel like it is my responsibility to give a toast, despite the fact that it raises a fleeting wave of anxiety in me. I clear my throat tentatively and raise my glass. “You all know I’m rubbish at this sort of thing, but before we eat, I think we need to acknowledge the reason for this little party tonight. Harry, you’ve officially been a pain in my ass for thirty years now, but I can’t imagine what life would be like without colourful wardrobe or your wild stories that, frankly, make my life seem rather dull in comparison. You are one of a kind, Harriet Watson. Happy birthday.” 

I tip my glass towards her and the others around the table join me, echoing ‘happy birthday’ and then taking a sip of whatever drink they are holding.

Toast taken care of, we focus on the food, which is delicious, despite Molly’s frequent claims of being useless in the kitchen. Conversation ebbs and flows throughout the meal. I pitch in where required but mostly let it wash over me, enjoying the fact that everyone seems to be getting along. Greg gets up to retrieve another bottle of wine from the kitchen, refilling glasses liberally. 

It’s not until everyone’s nearly finished eating that I realise what’s been going on -- Sherlock has deftly steered the conversation throughout the evening, focusing on anything and everything but him. He asks questions, changes topics and deflects masterfully; it’s impressive to watch, once I realise what he’s doing, especially in comparison to my usual hopeless attempts at conversation. However, it’s inevitable that someone finally shines the spotlight on him. 

It’s Nicola who finally cracks. (I’d have put my bet on Molly.) “I hope this isn’t entirely uncouth, Sherlock, but I absolutely loved _Bohemia_. It’s one of my absolute favourites -- such a beautiful film and your performance was amazing!” 

It’s not one that I’ve seen, but I think I remember seeing the trailer for it a few years ago. I’m fairly certain it won a lot of awards. Perhaps I should be more familiar with Sherlock’s IMDB page.

Sherlock sets down his cutlery and wipes off his mouth with this napkin. “That is very kind of you, Nicola. I enjoyed making it so it pleases me that others found it enjoyable to watch.”

“Ooh, I loved that one, too!” Molly says, “The costumes were to die for!”

Nicola nods in agreement. “And the scenery was breathtaking. I begged Mike to take me to Prague after seeing it in the cinema.”

“It’s true,” Mike says, “And yet we still haven’t gone. Some day, Nic, some day.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she tells him. “Sherlock, what was it like filming there?”

“Full of tourists.” He pauses for so long that I think that’s all he’s going to say and I try to think of some way to change the topic, but then he continues, “Although I did enjoy the Franz Kafka Museum. I read through much of his bibliography in its original German while I was there. Helped pass the time.”

“You speak it well enough to understand Kafka in German?” Greg sounds impressed and yet somewhat appalled.

“Indeed. It was something of a requirement in my family -- I speak French and several dialects of Russian as well, and I can get by in Italian and Spanish, plus the bit of Czech I learned for the film.”

I’m glad I’m not the only one gaping at him following this statement. I’ve barely got English down, plus a few random phrases in Pashto and Dari from my Army days. Not nearly the same as the multilingual marvel sitting next to me. “Amazing!”

“You’re putting us to shame, mate!” Mike says, laughing. 

“Oh my gosh, can you remember your line, the one from the scene where Petr and Evka find each other again?” Molly asks with a squeal.

Sherlock pauses briefly, apparently refreshing the line in his mind, before reciting, “Ačkoli se dny cítily nekonečné a naše šance byly malé, udělali jsme to, mou lásku, vlastní srdce.” 

Obviously I have no idea what to make of that, but I will admit that it sounds remarkably sexy coming from Sherlock, his lush mouth caressing the words. The women around the table swoon.

“Wait, aren’t you dating the woman who played Evka? You know, oh, what’s her name?” Harry asks, her voice loud and her lips stained red by the wine. 

The question catches me completely off guard. Not one to pay attention to the tabloids, I’m always out of the loop on celebrity gossip. It hadn’t occurred to me that Sherlock might have a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Sherlock is quiet beside me and for a long moment, I think he’s not going to answer, and I’m not quite sure what I would do if that was the case. The entire table has gone silent, although the others are trying to pretend like they aren’t zeroed in on Sherlock’s response. 

Sherlock reaches for his wine, taking a big sip. “Her name is Irene. Irene Adler. We’ve never dated, despite what the tabloids say. An on-set romance is an easy thing to sell to the public, and Irene was happy to let those rumours fly.”

“But you weren’t?” Molly asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. The fact that he’s said so much about it already is rather a shock. I stare at the side of his face, trying to figure out what’s going on inside that amazing brain of his. He then takes a deep breath and says with determination, “I am a gay man, but I’m not ‘out’ --” he says the last word with a heavy amount of disdain “-- at least not as far as the masses are concerned. I’ve played innumerable roles in my life, but ‘Sherlock Holmes’ might be the one I like least.”

I want to reach out to him, but I don’t know how he’d react, especially not in front of all the others. Instead I press my elbow against his so he knows I’m still here, if that helps at all. I just can’t imagine that life. I know there are lots of closeted people out there, myself included much of the time, but to have your life picked apart by the papers and by gossip-hungry housewives to the point where you feel like you’re acting in your own life. How unfair and miserable.

“Well, fuck, mate. I think you win the brownie tonight.” Greg exclaims, blowing his breath out in a huff and shaking his head.

Sherlock goes from stoic to slightly puzzled. “Pardon?”

No one speaks up immediately and I’m sure as hell not going to explain.

Mike, with his properly developed level of maturity, says, “We play a game whenever we get together -- the saddest act gets the brownie at the end of the night. Usually we have to share what makes us more pathetic than the rest of this desperate lot, but yeah, tonight I agree with Greg. The brownie’s yours, Sherlock.”

“Is the proper response ‘thanks’ to a statement like that?” Sherlock looks even more confused after Mike’s explanation. “Well, perhaps I want to hear about my competition for the Brownie of Despair? If I’m a contender for being a closeted actor, moping about the state of my life, putting up with rumoured girlfriends and other tabloid gossip, then I want to know why you all think you deserve the brownie, too.”

Mike laughs and claps Sherlock on the shoulder. “I never win anyway, so I’ll take myself out of the running now.”

“You’re far too sensible to be in the running, Mikey!” Harry says with a grin, her wine glass nearly empty. “Greg, you start us off!”

“Right, well, this week has been total shit at work. There’s an impossible case that we just can’t seem to crack and the Chief Constable is breathing down our necks about it, especially mine after I fucked up an interview, so now I’m worried about getting a demerit. Plus, I was a total arse to my best friend earlier tonight and I still feel like awful about that. Sorry again, Johnny,” he says, tipping his glass in my direction. I wave him off. 

“Mm, I don’t know, Greg. Not your best effort.” Mike says. “Mols, what’ve you got?”

“Well, today I was up to my elbows in a man who had died from constipation -- yes, that’s a real thing. It caused a fatal heart arrhythmia and then no one found him for a few days. It took me ages to get the stink of it off me. Then I came and tried to make a cake from a new recipe and instead made an inedible mess, so Greg had to run out to the shops to pick up something store bought for dessert. Tonight we have store-bought Brownies of Despair, as Sherlock called them.” 

Harry pushes her plate away. “Glad I was nearly finished eating! Mols, your stories are always disgusting.”

“That’s to be expected when you spend your days around dead bodies, I’d think.” Mike says, “Although live bodies are pretty disgusting sometimes, too.”

“I think they can be fascinating, dead or alive,” Sherlock says.

“Of course you do. You’re a bit of a freak, aren’t you?” I ask, grinning. Everyone else laughs, but he just shrugs at me, feigning indifference but a smile tugs at his lips as well. 

“Okay, birthday girl, let’s hear why you think you deserve the brownie,” Greg says.

I brace myself. It’s impossible to predict what Harry is going to come out with, especially after a few drinks. 

“I am now 30 years old and that is depressing.”

“You’re the youngest in the room, love,” Nicola says, eyebrow arched as if to say ‘watch what you say next!’

“That just means you’ve had more time to come to terms with your impending middle age, whereas I am just beginning the panic over getting older. My best years are officially behind me and all I’ve got is my crap job, a shitty flat, funny, goggly eyes and sagging breasts. No boyfriend either because I only seem to attract shitheads so I’ve sworn off men altogether.”

“Since when?” Molly teases.

“Since now. They’re all awful, even you lot and that includes my own brother. You’re not worth the trouble.”

I cringe. “Please, for the love of god, don’t talk about me in relation to your love life.” 

“Oh, you know what I mean. Everything’s just shit, innit?”

“Stop trying to gain extra sympathy because it’s your birthday. It’s not gonna work, Harry,” Greg says, toying with the springy bits of her fascinator. She bats his hands away and then reaches across him for the wine.

“John?” Sherlock says, turning to me with an expectant look. “Are you throwing your hat in for the brownie?”

“Um. . .” I think through my usual complaints -- the shop, Anderson, my height, my loveless existence, et cetera and so forth. While I could tell them about the result of our sales push or spilling coffee on Sherlock (which they already know and would discount straight away), I find I just don’t want to play this round. “No, I’m not. Despite generally being, you know, a bumbling fool, tonight I’m feeling pretty good, even after episodes of periodic embarrassment. I’m surrounded by my friends, my sister and my brilliant date.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Harry and Greg lead a chorus of ‘aww’s and Mike leans over to playfully shove Sherlock’s shoulder, before moving on to debate who gets the brownie tonight. 

In the end, Sherlock forfeits the newly-named Brownie of Despair to Harry, which in reality is just a second slice of the store-bought chocolate cake. 

When the cake is finished, Harry stands up, cheeks flushed and stumbling slightly. “As birthday girl, it’s my turn to say a few words. Even though I’m royally pissed off at getting old, I’ve had a brilliant time with you lot. Thank you for cooking tha yummy food for my birthday, Molly -- you’re the best. And I want to thank my brother for shagging Sherlock Holmes because it meant that I won the brownie tonight!”

Greg snorts and the others start to laugh, but I just gape at her, stunned and mortified. I knew it was too much to ask to get through this night without her completely embarrassing me or herself. I drop my head into my hands, hair flopping forward to curl over my fingers, and groan, “Oh my god.”

“One of the unintended perks, I suppose, of me accompanying John tonight.” Sherlock says, sounding amused.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Johnny. We’re all rooting for you!” 

“Shut up, Greg,” I murmur, lifting my head from my hands. Turning to Sherlock, I plead, “Can we please leave so I can escape any further humiliation from these absolute horrors?”

“Yes, get out of here because then we can finally talk about you and Sherlock!” Harry says with a devious grin.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Mike, as usual, cuts to the chase. “You know it’s inevitable, John. Might as well make a run for it now!”

“In that case, we shall take our leave so you can commence your gossiping,” Sherlock says. Considering our earlier conversation this could have been bitter, but he sounds genuinely entertained. He rises from his seat, everyone following his lead, and so begins a loud and confused process of saying goodbye, including too many comments laced with innuendo, nudges and winks for me to handle. I finally escape Molly’s clingy hug and start towards the front door, ushering Sherlock in front of me.

“Oh, John! This is for you!” Harry rushes into the hall and passes me an A4 envelope, before giving me a final hug and whispering loudly, “I’m sorry if I embarrass you, Johnny. Love you!” She goes to rejoin the others, and then pauses at the door. “Oi, Sherlock! Marry Johnny so we can be sisters!” she shouts, cackling as she escapes back into the sitting room. 

I blink up at Sherlock, racking my brain for some way to erase the last minute from existence.

Raising an eyebrow, he opens the door and asks, “Shall we?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Because my lovely beta asked, the definition of a fascinator is “a woman's light, decorative headpiece consisting of feathers, flowers, beads, etc. attached to a comb or hair clip” (thanks, dictionary.com) and some of them are RIDICULOUS -- please go Google ‘fascinator’ for hours of entertainment. Just so you can fully picture it, I imagine Harry’s zany fascinator looks something like this:  
>   
> 2\. I doubt demerit is an actual word used by the Met, but I didn’t know what they’d call it and I was too lazy to search for the correct term. We’ll go with demerit!
> 
> 3\. The made up film _Bohemia_ is, in my head at least, an epic period film with a nearly lyrical script, lots of moody shots of the architecture in Prague by night, and a musical score that sweeps you away. There’s a romance between Sherlock’s character Petr and Irene’s character Evka. It won loads of Baftas and other awards and was nominated at the Oscars as well. 
> 
> 4\. I don’t speak Czech at all so this came directly from Google translate. Supposedly it means “Though the days felt endless and our chances small, we have made it, my love, my own heart.” If it’s horribly wrong, please let me know!
> 
> 5\. And some other photos of John’s outfit, Sherlock's pocket square, and Molly and Greg’s house (far right):  
>   
>   
>   
>   
> 
> 
> And with that, this is officially the longest fic I've ever written and we're nowhere close to being finished. Thank you so much for reading so far and for all your lovely comments! <3 xx


	5. the unexpected has happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little trespassing and a lot of fluff. Whoops!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit longer to pull together because of other things getting in the way, but here it is, a whole lot of fluff heading your way! I just couldn't resist adapting this scene from the film. You know the one...
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments on this fic so far - they are really keeping me going!!! You are the best! x
> 
> As always, thanks to @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock for looking this one over! <3

After making our escape, Sherlock and I step out of Greg and Molly’s house, jog down the five steps, and by some unspoken agreement turn left, setting out at a leisurely pace through the streets of Notting Hill. While it’s cooler now that the sun has set over London, the night air is inviting, and maybe I’m imagining things, but it feels filled with a sense of anticipation. 

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I watch crap telly into the wee hours of the morning. I’ve watched endless made-for-television films, random American programmes, and, when particularly desperate, some QVC UK. Regardless of how inane, the programmes are a kind of company when I can’t stand to be in my own head anymore. The American version of _Whose Line Is It Anyway?_ comes on around one in the morning on ITV, and it is one I genuinely look forward to watching. The comedians seemed to make any subject matter, no matter how obscure or banal, seem new, entertaining and funny. For half an hour, I laugh along with them, enjoying the ridiculousness of the bits and admiring the talent of the comedians. 

However, the very idea of improv terrifies me -- sounds like my worst nightmare, actually. Worse than shipping out to my first deployment and facing real threats to my life and safety. My brain seems to into a state of alarm when put on the spot and I’m not able to form coherent sentences, let alone be quick-witted and one step ahead. 

I kind of feel like I’m on that programme at the moment. Dropped down on a stage, the audience shouting out ideas for a scene (“ordinary bloke out on a date with a famous actor”) and now I have to fumble my way through it, despite not having any idea of what comes next in this scenario. 

Except instead of spotlights, we’re illuminated by the orange glow of London street lamps and it’s just an intimate audience of two. My brain keeps repeating _what happens next, what happens next, what happens next_ loudly and at increasing levels of panic.

Gripping the envelope Harry gave me in one hand and shoving the other in my pocket to stop from fidgeting, I say, “Thank you for coming along tonight -- I hope that was okay.”

“I told you this afternoon that I would enjoy myself immensely, and I did. It was a good evening.”

“Yeah, it was good. Good but embarrassing -- really can’t trust my friends to behave. Total menaces, that lot! You coped remarkably well.”

Sherlock laughs. “Compared to some of the vultures I meet at industry events, they were positively enchanting. I much prefer socialising when people aren’t circling, waiting to see what salacious information they can gleen or how I can help them further their careers. Your friends are genuinely decent people, John, and they care about you.” 

“Yes, I suppose they do. Being awful is just their way of showing it.”

“Typical of family and close friends, I’ve found.” 

I wonder who he’s referring to, who’s in the inner circle of Sherlock’s life? He doesn’t expand up on that thought, however, so I don’t ask. We continue walking along Elgin Crescent, passing house after house, some with warm lights shining through the windows, indicative of the life inside them, others are dark and still. We don’t seem to have a destination in mind, turning left onto Rosmead Road at random, both of us content to just meander. 

To our left rises a high wrought iron fence, marking one of the gardens that’s off limits to people like me. 

“Do you think people actually use these gardens? Or are they just locked up as a sign to the rest of the world that we’re not good enough?” I ask Sherlock, gesturing to the fence on my left. 

“They’re locked?” He looks perplexed by the idea.

“Yes, Sherlock, they’re private gardens -- only for the residents living on streets nearby.”

“That’s ridiculous.” He glares at the fence as if its caused personal offence. “A primary tenet of the urban parks movement was to create spaces that were for the benefit of _all_ people -- for their health and leisure, especially following the industrialisation of Britain.”

“That may be true, but there’s also that eternal issue of rich people not wanting to share their nice things with the rabble.”

Sherlock snorts and strides purposefully towards a gate separating us from the lush gardens within. Following one firm tug, as if to test the strength of the lock, he steps back and examines the wrought iron fence. I watch in dismay as he steps up on the brick base of the wall and begins to lift his left leg, seeking out a foothold.

“What are you doing?” 

“Don’t be tedious, John. I’m climbing over, of course.”

I splutter, “But we’re not allowed.”

Sherlock turns back to me, highly unimpressed. “We’re not going to cause any damage. We’re simply going to take a walk through the gardens.” He narrows his eyes, “Are you always such a stickler for the rules?” I can practically hear the eyeroll that accompanies that last word. 

Glancing to either side to see if anyone is watching us, I mutter, “Fine.”

He smiles victoriously, and proceeds to scale the fence in a few graceful maneuvers and swings down to land lightly on the other side. Bloody agile bastard.

I grumble under my breath as I approach the fence, checking the road one final time before thrusting the envelope through the bars at Sherlock. “Hold this.”

“What is it?”

My brain scrambles around for a second, before settling on, “Just some paperwork for the shop.” I don’t look at Sherlock to see if he buys it, instead I grasp the bars between my hands and step up onto the ledge. 

I cannot for the life of me figure out what Sherlock stepped on to get up the fence, nothing appears to be a sturdy foothold. There’s a bit of a decorative swirl on one of the bars so I place my foot on that and push myself up. Halfway up, I can feel my foot slipping -- no tread on these shoes because I did not intend to be scaling fences and trespassing tonight! -- and I fall in an ungainly fashion back to the pavement below. “Whoopsie daisy!” 

It just slips out.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing!”

“Yes, you did. You just said, ‘whoopsie daisy’!”

“You’re hearing things.”

“No, I’m not. You said, ‘whoopsie daisy’! Oh, John, you are a delight!” Sherlock is barely able to contain his glee. A huge smile lights up his face and he’s shaking with laughter, hands clasped together under his chin. 

We’re currently in the absurd situation of trying to break into private gardens, with Sherlock on one side of the fence and me on the other, and I’m trying desperately to hold onto my annoyance, but his laughter is contagious. I can feel hilarity rising up in me, ready to fizz over like a shaken bottle of soda water, and I start to giggle. My eyes scrunch shut and my sides begin to ache from it, and it feels wonderful. 

I catch Sherlock’s eye briefly and that only serves to set us both off again. Finally, with a great effort, I pull myself together, taking deep breaths and wiping tears from my eyes. 

“Ready to try again?” Sherlock asks, merriment still shimmering about him.

I huff out a breath but can’t stop my lips twisting into a grin. I approach the damn fence again, and with Sherlock pointing out footholds and at one point, catching my foot before it slips, I manage to get to the top of the fence and grab a tree branch overhead, before somewhat awkwardly letting myself down on the other side, landing with a thump. 

“That was ridiculous.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” 

“That wasn’t just me.” 

Once again Sherlock has invited himself in and once again I let him. 

With a grin, Sherlock hands back the envelope and sets off down the loose gravel path in front of us and I jog to catch up with him, blast his stupidly long legs. 

Well-tended grass blankets the ground on either side of the path, with pockets of flowers surrounding the bases of the tall trees that are scattered throughout the garden. I assume that at some point someone strategically planted each one for peak aesthetic privacy. They completely block from view any of surrounding houses, only a dim light filtering through the leaves. There’s a gap in the trees through the middle of the garden so that the canopies open up to the heavens. If there wasn’t so much light pollution in London, we might be able to see more than a handful of the brightest stars. 

We walk together down the path, Sherlock with his hands clasped behind his back, our shoulders brushing occasionally. He breaks the silence and says, “Beautiful, isn’t it? What a lovely thing a rose is.”

After his contempt for the idea of the locked gardens, it surprises me for some reason that he seems to have an appreciation for what actually lays inside. I glance up at him and the light catches him just right so that his curls are illuminated, giving him a golden halo. He’s beautiful. 

“It is. It’s very beautiful.” I reply. He doesn’t have to know that I’m talking about him and not the bloody garden. 

“Landscape architect Frederick Law Olmstead once famously exclaimed that parks are ‘the lungs of the city’ -- I can’t disagree with him. Despite still being able to hear the traffic from the main road and knowing that there are a multitude of families going about their business in houses not 20 metres from here, green spaces still give the illusion of being in an urban oasis of fresh air and organic matter.” 

He must have the encyclopedia memorised -- he just pulls these random facts from nowhere. He’s amazing. 

“The lungs of the city? I like that.” It reflects how I felt in Afghanistan whenever we were on patrol somewhere with trees and grass and flowers, like we could breathe again. The war will never fully leave me, I guess. Even here in the humid night air of London, I can summon the memory of desert winds and sand so vividly. 

Sherlock looks pleased by my response and continues his lecture. “In the centre of Holyrood Park in Edinburgh, there is a hill, part of an ancient volcanic chain, called Arthur’s Seat -- the name’s a trifle fanciful, if you ask me, and inaccurate considering the legend of King Arthur is so closely tied to Wales -- but when you walk through the park you get the sense that you could be in the far reaches of the Highlands instead of in the city, due to the rocky outcroppings that formed as the glaciers pushed across the land. One can breathe there. And if you walk just fifteen minutes up the crags, you overlook the city and can see for miles on a clear day, across the water and into the lower hills of the Highlands.”

It sounds idyllic. “I’ve never been to Edinburgh. Or Scotland, more generally. Bit ridiculous considering my family name and all.”

“Perhaps it would an opportunity to put some of those books in your shop to use?”

I chuckle. “Perhaps.”

The hushed sounds in the garden are interrupted by the metallic grinding of a key in a lock and a screech as a garden gate is opened. 

“Shit. We’re not supposed to be in here!” I whisper urgently to Sherlock. 

The gravel on the path crunches beneath shoes as someone walks towards us from the left. I’m casting about for a place to hide, panicking slightly when there’s nothing nearby that will cover both me and Sherlock, when I’m spun around and gently pushed forward, Sherlock’s palm in between my shoulder blades.

“Go, quickly. Towards the wall. Between the poplar tree and the juniper - there’s a shadow that will conceal us.”

We rush ahead. I stumble slightly on a root as we slip behind the tree and into the darkness to be hidden from view. My right shoulder is pressed firmly against Sherlock’s chest, but I’m afraid to move. The footsteps on the gravel are nearer and I can hear voices -- two of them, one male and one female. 

As if reading my mind, Sherlock whispers in my ear, “They’re a couple, that man and woman, and they’ve lived in their house overlooking these gardens for twenty years. She comes out here during the daytime to sit on one of the benches and read while he’s at work -- lawyer, prosperous firm. When the weather’s nice, they frequently go for an evening stroll, knowing they’ll have the garden to themselves. And when they first were married, they carved their initials into one of the trees as a testament to their love.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

He chuckles, the vibrations cascading down my arm where it’s pressed against him. “I don’t -- I’m making it up.”

A giggle escapes and I slap my left hand over my mouth to keep any more from escaping. 

“Shh, John,” Sherlock says, still laughing himself. “They’ll hear us and then come over to discover two men hiding in the bushes.”

Which only serves to make me laugh harder. I gasp, “People will talk.”

“People do little else.” Sherlock’s eyes are gleaming in the darkness.

We stand, giggling in the shadows, for a few more minutes, until the couple can no longer be heard and then slip out from our hiding place to make our way back to the gate on Rosmead Road, keeping to the grass to hide our footsteps. This time Sherlock gestures for me to climb over first and I manage with a bit more dignity than my first attempt. Sherlock quickly follows and we set off down the road, away from our transgression of trespassing and head in the direction of my flat. 

We walk in a comfortable silence the rest of the way, my street appearing much more quickly than I’d hoped. When we reach my door, my nerves ratchet up again and the refrain of _what happens next_ comes back at full volume. My palms are sweaty and my heart has started to race. I don’t want the night to end. 

“Want to come up?” As soon as it’s out, I cringe. It’s like I drew a cheesy pickup line out of a hat. Smooth, Watson. I risk a glance at Sherlock’s face. 

He’s stopped walking and turns his body towards me, his eyes dark, and for a moment, a wave of excitement washes over me with the realisation that Sherlock seems as interested in taking this further as I am. 

But then he shakes his head and smiles softly. “I can’t, John. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Right.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Did I read that all wrong? 

“Can I borrow your mobile? I need to send a text.”

The request comes out of nowhere. Does he not carry a mobile? Is he texting for a lift? Dumbly, I fumble in my pocket and pull out my mobile, handing it over to him as my brain tries to make sense of what’s happened. I fail -- I’m properly confused about what’s going on just now. 

His fingers fly over the screen, tapping away at a message to some unknown person. I feel horribly awkward standing there, watching him text someone else with my mobile. Not sure what to do with myself, I look away and scuff the toe of my shoe on the pavement. 

With a final tap, the screen goes dark and Sherlock hands my mobile back. Any excitement I would have felt at the brief contact of our fingers touching has dissipated in the changed atmosphere of the last few minutes. 

And then Sherlock’s pocket chimes.

My eyes snap to his and his mouth curls up into a shy smile.

“You texted yourself,” I say. It’s supposed to come out like an accusation, but it sounds like breathless wonder. I can’t stop the grin that’s spreading across my face.

“Very observant.”

I desperately want to unlock my phone and read the message he sent. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how thrilled I am that I now have his number, so I pocket my phone instead.

Sherlock is standing so close -- I’m not sure if he moved or I did, but he’s closer now and my hands are itching to reach out and touch him.

“I’ll see you again?” I ask, staring up into his eyes. 

“I’d like that.” Sherlock’s voice rumbles in his chest, so deep I imagine I can feel it. 

“Me too.” It comes out a whisper, but that’s only to be expected because Sherlock is dipping his head down and suddenly his lips are on mine, warm and soft and tentative.

I tilt my head back so I can better slot my mouth against his and deepen the kiss, my hands going to the lapels of his suit jacket, envelope still clutched awkwardly in my right hand. Sherlock makes a soft ‘mmm’ -- I shiver at the sound -- and then again when his hands come to rest on my hips. 

We kiss and kiss and kiss. 

Sherlock’s mouth is intoxicating. I press myself closer to him and I give in to a fantasy I’ve been having all night -- I push my left hand up into his hair, cupping the back of his head. The soft strands curl around my fingers like they’re trying to hold me there.

A bang echoes down the street and Sherlock and I pull apart in surprise. The moment is broken. 

What the fuck is a bin lorry doing out at midnight on a Saturday? 

Sherlock gives me a rueful smile. He steps away and I instantly miss his warmth. “Good night, John.”

“Oh, right. Well, good night, then. Thank you for tonight, Sherlock.”

I open the street door to my flat and turn back to get one last look at him. He’s still near the door, watching me intently. 

He’s too beautiful to just abandon on the doorstep, so holding the door open with one hand, I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek, whisper “good night” to him one last time and then disappear through the door. If I’d lingered any longer, I wouldn’t have been able to leave him at all. 

Standing inside the foyer, I lean against the door and pull out my phone, swiping it unlocked and frantically opening Messages. There, at the top of the list, is Sherlock’s name. I click on it to reveal the message he sent. 

⟪The unexpected has happened so continually in my life that it has ceased to deserve the name. Until meeting you. SH⟫

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Funny story - I was choosing the route of Sherlock and John’s walk at random just using the aerial Google map of Notting Hill and decided they’d jump the fence into the garden from Rosmead Rd. because it was slightly removed from any of the main thoroughfares. After choosing this spot, I zoomed in and was disappointed to see that there weren’t trees overhanging the gate like there are in the movie but decided to just keep it and claim artistic license. THEN @zigster-ao3, marvel that she is, digs up a list of filming locations from Notting Hill and it turns out that I randomly chose the EXACT SAME STREET and EXACT SAME GARDEN ENTRANCE that they used in the film. What are the chances?! They’ve remodeled the gate since the film was made, so it now looks like this: 
> 
> \- I frequently walk through Holyrood Park on my way home from work and this is exactly how I feel -- like I can breathe. 
> 
> \- Last week, the bin lorry rocked up outside my flat at midnight on a Saturday and I was pissed. Probably not as pissed as Sherlock and John for having their first kiss interrupted, but still…
> 
> \- The text Sherlock sends “The unexpected has happened so continually in my life that it has ceased to deserve the name” is a quote taken from one of ACD’s other works, the Stark Munro Letters, which I’ve taken out of context and repurposed to fit here.


	6. blame the dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of texting and a second date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a lot of nit-picking and rewriting this chapter to the point where I'd had enough and figured I'd just post it, so I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading so far and for all your lovely comments!
> 
> As always, thanks to @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock for helping me with this chapter! x

My phone is blinking furiously when I wake up on Sunday morning after a long lie-in. I swipe it unlocked and am greeted by thirteen new text messages. Instantly, my heart rate speeds up over the possibility of who they’re from -- surely Sherlock hasn’t texted so much so soon? I don’t think I’d really mind if he did, however, despite the fact that it would seem like a bit much from anyone else.

I click on Messages and it appears I have a text from everyone who knows me. Apparently the gossip train is chugging ahead at full steam.

Harry  
Received 13/5/2018 01:48  
⟪Jooooooohnny!!!! I can’t belive u brought Sherlcok bloody HOlmes to my bday party! Best. Birthday. Ever.⟫

Harry  
Received 13/5/2018 01:52  
⟪did u get lucky???? ⟫

Harry  
Received 13/5/2018 02:02  
⟪Come onn, I want all teh details!!⟫

Greg   
Received 13/5/2018 08:11  
⟪Good morning! Sorry if we gave you a hard time last night, mate - you know we can’t help ourselves. It’s still really fucking weird that Sherlock Holmes was in my house. Weird but really cool. So um...hope you and Sherlock had a good time?⟫

Greg   
Received 13/5/2018 08:11  
⟪Did you enjoy some Hobnobs? ;)⟫ 

Molly  
Received 13/5/2018 08:21  
⟪Oh god, John, ignore Greg. He’s been giddy all morning. I mean, we both have but still ignore him. We’re just happy for you!!! X⟫

Harry  
Received 13/5/2018 09:06   
⟪u better be shagged out. that’s the only excuse i’ll accpet for not replying 2 me!⟫

Mike  
Received 13/5/2018 09:34  
⟪John, you made Nicola’s night! Don’t think I’ve seen her that starry-eyed before - not sure how I’m ever going to top meeting Sherlock Holmes…⟫

Mike  
Received 13/5/2018 09:36  
⟪But well done, mate, he seems like a good bloke. Keep us updated!⟫

Harry  
Received 13/5/2018 10:10  
⟪JOHN! Where are u????⟫

Unknown  
Received 13/5/2018 10:15  
⟪It’s come to my attention that you’ve made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes. I strongly suggest you sever your connection with him immediately.⟫

Harry  
Received 13/5/2018 10:21  
⟪is he still there??? U never sleep this late!! xx⟫

Sherlock  
Received 13/5/2018 10:37  
⟪This meeting is incredibly dull. Do you have today’s newspaper? If so, text me clues to the crossword puzzle. I need something to occupy my mind. SH⟫

The messages from my friends are expected, the message from the unknown number is concerning, and the message from Sherlock brings an instant smile to my face. How is it possible to be so endeared by a text message? I can just picture him sitting in a meeting with some highfalutin film executives, looking impossibly bored and ignoring them in order to send me texts. He’s ridiculous.

I stretch languorously and push back my duvet. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I fire off texts to Harry, Greg, Molly, and Mike - all of them short and giving nothing away. I contemplate deleting the text from the unknown number but, still feeling a bit unsettled, I decide to keep it for now. With a yawn, I collect my dressing gown and shuffle down the corridor to grab the Guardian from where it’s dropped through my letterbox. 

Setting the paper on the table in the kitchen, I fill the kettle to prepare myself a cup of tea and pop some bread in the toaster for toast with jam. Breakfast made, I plop down in my chair and open the paper to the puzzles section. Usually it’s just a half-hearted attempt to fill in the Sudoku puzzle for me, but today I look at the clues for the crossword puzzle instead.

Opening my phone, I tap out ⟪’Cold island, country without an insect’ (6)⟫ and send it to Sherlock and then flip back to the front page to scan the headlines while I sip my tea. 

⟪That is atrocious grammar. What does that even mean? SH⟫

⟪I don’t know. Just the first clue, innit?⟫

⟪Give me more. SH⟫

⟪Demanding. ‘Write song that’s repetitive, showing weakness’ (8)⟫

A few seconds pause and then my phone chimes again.

⟪Try ‘penchant’. SH⟫

And so it continues. I spend my Sunday lazing about the flat, texting crossword clues to Sherlock between cups of tea. 

In the late afternoon, after the crossword has been completed, I open the envelope Harry gave me yesterday and pull out the pages she’s been working on. Her drawings are, of course, brilliant. Somehow she’s able to bring to life the dialogue and stick-figure drawings that I give her, like she’s seeing inside my head. That’s the difference between me and Harry. I struggle to get things out, to process the emotions and memories that flood through me at odd moments, leaving me feeling raked over and helpless -- which is the reason for this whole project in the first place. Harry seems to have no problem opening herself up and being vulnerable, no matter how messy or inconvenient. She wears every emotion openly, where I contain, protect, survive. She is my opposite in nearly every way and there are times when I wish I could be more like her. 

I’ve been simultaneously anticipating and dreading this section -- seeing the words I’ve written brought to life in the bold, black outlines of Harry’s graphic style elevates the power of each scene. There’s a particular sense of anguish to this part of the story, my story, which is reflected in the drawings. They’re darker and harsher than the previous pages, more oppressive. 

I take a few minutes to breathe, closing my eyes and counting slowly to one hundred.

In my bedroom, there is a folder tucked away in the cupboard of my bedside table, behind a box of mementos, that contains the rest of the completed pages. I crouch down to retrieve it and place the new pages at the back of the stack, which has gotten noticeably thicker in the last couple months and a spark of pride surges through me over what we’ve created.

Climbing onto my bed, I settle against the pillows to read it through, something I haven’t done since we started this project. I turn the pages gently, lingering over the combination of my words and Harry’s drawings. It’s breathtaking -- in a raw and beautiful way. 

Twenty minutes later, when I’ve finished, I tuck the pages safely back in the folder, place it back in the cupboard and curl up on my bed, emotionally exhausted but pleased. 

Although I’ve just lazed about today, I can feel a sleepiness creeping back in and decide that an afternoon Sunday nap is acceptable after a late night. Shuffling about to get comfortable, I let sleep take me.

The sun is setting when I wake, illuminating my bedroom in a soft, warm glow. I roll over and look at my phone to check the time. It’s just going on seven-thirty. I contemplate ordering a takeaway but then remember the state of my bank account. Instead, I root around in my cupboards and freezer, pulling out a few things that seem like they’d make a meal. As I’m serving up some rice and sad frozen veg, my phone chimes to indicate a text.

It’s from Sherlock. The lingering melancholy from earlier departs as the butterflies in my stomach wake up and begin fluttering like mad.

⟪It’s impossible to find decent waffles in this city. SH⟫

When we’d exchanged numbers yesterday, this is not quite what I expected. His disdain for normal social conventions, his demands, and his random asides via text are wonderful. 

As a reply, I send a picture of my dinner with a sad face emoji. 

⟪What are you doing to yourself, John? That looks inedible. SH⟫

I snort out out a laugh and take a bite.

***

“Morning, boss,” Anderson says, walking into the office and hanging his jacket on one of the hooks on the back of the door. “Have a good weekend?”

It’s odd to go about your normal, day-to-day tasks after something extraordinary has happened. I’ve been staring at a list of titles to be ordered since I arrived at the shop earlier this morning like it’s suddenly written in a foreign language. I’ve made thousands of orders before and now my brain seems to have omitted the process.

And being faced with the prospect of typical post-weekend small talk with Anderson, I find I have completely forgotten how this social contract works. I mean, I did have a good weekend, a marvelous one, really, but it almost feels like an impossible thing to share with the world. And do I even want to? Something about it feels too new, too precious, like I want to keep it mine for just a while longer. 

“Yes, it was just fine, Anderson. Thanks. How about you?” I reply. I refocus on the list in front of me like I’d actually been working when he’d entered in hopes that it will keep this conversation short, but Anderson is oblivious. My question sets him off on a detailed explanation of his weekend exploits. 

Thankfully, the bell on the door rings, indicating the first potential customer of the day, so I’m able to shoo Anderson out of the office to deal with them, while I sit at my desk and attempt to work. However, my mind keeps wandering back to Sherlock -- he already takes up too much space there. 

With herculean effort, I manage to reorder the books. Then, not wanting to feel like a totally useless business owner today, I force myself to leave the office and be productive. I give Anderson the task of wiping down the shelves (because I hate it), while I finish reshelving the rest of the books that arrived at the end of last week. Three customers come in and two actually buy something, and I feel far more attentive as I ring their purchases through the till than I do on an average Monday. 

Despite this, the morning still passes remarkably slowly. 

Just after one o’clock, I pop out of the shop for lunch, another sad meal deal from Boots. I really should start packing my lunches instead of being disappointed every day, but that would require me to be far more organised. It'd be cheaper, too, which is important if things keep going downhill with the shop. Something for future me to think about; I’m feeling far too happy to worry about it today. 

It’s a beautiful spring day, so I find a section of wall to perch on and each my lunch in the sun. I’m about to return to the shop when my phone chimes, a sound that I’m beginning to look forward to hearing in a way I’ve never done before.

⟪After seeing the state of your dinner plate last night, I feel a responsibility to ensure that you have a proper meal. I know a place -- Angelo’s on Northumberland Street. Meet me there at 7? SH⟫

⟪Are you trying to feed me up?⟫

 

⟪No, just trying to ensure that you don’t expire from malnutrition. SH⟫

⟪Mmhmm. Sure. ;)⟫ 

⟪Well, isn’t that the proverb? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?⟫

This text causes me to suck in a breath. Is that what’s happening -- is Sherlock trying to find his way to my heart? I quickly send off a text confirming that I’ll meet him there this evening and practically skip back to the shop. 

Like Saturday, I find myself counting down the minutes until the end of the workday but this time trying to hide my excitement from Anderson. Thankfully he’s as observant as a spoon. 

Finally, six o’clock arrives and I’m able to rush through our end-of-the-day tasks before running home to shower and change my clothes, once again attempting to pull together an outfit that is moderately stylish and worthy of Sherlock Holmes. 

Once dressed, I head down to the Ladbroke Grove Station and take Circle Line to Paddington Station, where I have to change to the Bakerloo Line. The seven stops until Charing Cross seem to take an eternity, my leg jittering in anticipation. When the doors finally open, I dart off the train and take the stairs two at a time, emerging near the busy junction in front of Trafalgar Square. There is a woman selling roses at the entrance to the station, and on a whim, I buy one to give to Sherlock. 

With a final glance at the map on my phone, I set off towards Northumberland Street, and then am held up by a traffic light. Instead of normal green men, the crossings in this part of the city now have LGBT+ pride symbols -- the green light guiding me across the road at the moment are the figures of two men holding hands, forming a heart in the space between their bodies. I take it as a good luck charm for the evening ahead.

It’s a short walk to the restaurant, which is located on a side-street, away from some of the main foot traffic in the area. It’s a charming hole-in-the-wall Italian place, the kind you’d easily walk pass if you didn’t know it was there -- how did Sherlock discover it in the first place? Upon pulling open the door, I’m greeted by the tantalising smells of garlic and basil and my mouth waters.

I scan the restaurant -- it’s small, just a handful of booths and tables squeezed into the narrow space -- and spot Sherlock sitting at a secluded table near the back. There’s a glass of wine on the table in front of him and he’s doing something on his phone, but his eyes snap to me as soon as I take a step towards him and stay on me as I close the distance between us.

“Hello, Sherlock,” I say, giddy at seeing him again.

“Good evening, John.” He stands abruptly and we look at each other for a beat before he extends his hand towards me.

Instead of shaking it, I place the rose between his fingers. “For you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock breaths out, looking slightly stunned. “Thank you.” He studies it -- it’s a slightly worse-for-the-wear pink rose, nothing special -- and then leans forward to place a kiss on my cheek, his curls tickling my ear. 

When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and his lips curve up into a private smile. We sit and Sherlock places the rose gently on the table, where it remains for the rest of the meal, looking oddly like the final rose on that programme _The Bachelor_ , which I’m embarrassed to admit to have watched.

A large man with a ponytail appears at the table, who Sherlock introduces as Angelo himself.

“Always good to have you back, Sherlock,” he says, clapping Sherlock familiarly on the shoulder. “And this time with a date!” Angelo looks positively thrilled by this development and throws me a wink. 

Something about the way he says it and how Sherlock reacts, bowing his head, a faint flush spreading across his cheekbones, makes me wonder if this is actually a rare occurrence for him. While it’s new for me, I hadn’t truly considered it being new for him, despite the conversation at dinner on Saturday night. Maybe he’s just as nervous as I am?

Angelo hands me a menu while Sherlock just waves him off and requests his “usual”. Angelo bows his head in acknowledgement and then asks, “Would you like anything to drink besides the wine?”

Sherlock looks at me. “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of the Tintore, but please feel free to order whatever you’d like.” 

“Wine is fine, Sherlock. Thanks.” He looks relieved.

Angelo pours a glass for me and sets the bottle back on the table. “I will leave you now to decide on your meal.”

I glance over the menu, Sherlock making occasional comments about various dishes, like he can sense where my eyes rest on the page. Everything sounds delicious. Sherlock flags down Angelo so he’ll come take my order and I choose the linguine with clams and courgette in a white wine sauce. Both Sherlock and Angelo nod their approval. 

“It will be infinitely better than whatever that was you were eating yesterday,” Sherlock says as I hand my menu over to Angelo.

“What were you eating yesterday?” he asks, slightly scandalised.

I roll my eyes at Sherlock and answer Angelo’s question, “I haven’t had time to do a big shop this week so I made what I could with the sad contents of my cupboards, which offended Sherlock apparently, so now we’re here.”

“Ah, yes. Well, this is what he does, no? He makes sure people are okay. Did you know he got me my big break?”

Now I’m curious. “Big break?”

“Don’t listen to him, John. He’s exaggerating as usual.”

“This is simply not true!” He turns to me and continues his story, “Because of Sherlock’s recommendation, I was able to get a role in one of his films, a bit part in _The Solitary CyclistI_. If you watch it, you’ll see me in the scene at the pub -- I even have a few lines!”

Sherlock scoffs, “You talked your way onto that set just as much as I helped get you the part.”

“He is too modest. I’ve since been in five other films and because of them, I was able to keep the restaurant open. I owe it all to Sherlock, here!”

“That’s brilliant!” I enthuse and Sherlock looks embarrassed by the attention, so I nudge his toe with mine and smile, causing him to blush even more. 

“Enough already. Go get our food.” If he could flop back in his chair, I’d think he would. As it is, he has to pretend sulk without any additional dramatic flair. Angelo booms out a laugh, slaps Sherlock’s shoulder once more and then disappears into the kitchen.

“So you like to help people, hm?” I ask. 

Sherlock glares at me briefly to make his point, and then extricates himself from his sulk. “ _Some_ people,” he says.

“That’s good of you, Sherlock. And Angelo is certainly a fan of yours. How long have you known him?”

And with that, Sherlock’s off, apparently his connection to Angelo is of enough interest for him to regale me with how they met. I sip my wine, which is spicy and rich, and watch Sherlock over the rim of the glass. He’s animated in both expression and gesture. He’s a fantastic storyteller when he wants to be, and I listen, absolutely fascinated, until our food arrives.

My linguine smells divine and tastes even better -- I haven’t been out for a meal at a restaurant like this in ages and I revel for a moment in the quality of the food, white wine sauce dripping over my taste buds. Sherlock usual is spinach and ricotta raviol, and it also looks amazing. He just picks at it, however, as I attempt not to wolf down my meal. Manners, Watson.

We’re halfway through our meal and Sherlock says, “How long did your friends wait?”

“Hm?”

“Before they descended upon you for all the trite gossip?”

“Oh! Ha. I woke up yesterday to a barrage of texts from all of them. They were definitely curious, to say the least. You were a big hit at Harry’s birthday, but I imagine you draw attention wherever you go.”

“Why’s that?”

I look at him for a moment to see if he’s joking. From most people, this question would indicate that they were fishing for compliments, but from Sherlock, despite his celebrity status, it seems genuine. Where to start with my answer?

“Well, besides being one of the most beautiful people on the planet, Sherlock, you’re also intellectually appealing, you know? Like most people could never remotely comprehend what’s going on in that amazing brain of yours. It’s incredibly sexy.” It’s out before I can stop it -- wine clearly gone to my head.

His eyes snap to mine and his expression shifts from surprised to flattered in split second. It transforms his face -- there’s a warmth in his eyes and his mouth seems even poutier, if such a thing were possible. I lick my lips and take another sip of wine. 

“That. . . you. . . it’s mutual. All of it,” Sherlock says in a rush and then collects himself. “I recognise that there is a certain expectation of who Sherlock Holmes is based on interviews and appearances, but I think it’s important that you know that it’s not an accurate representation of me, not really.” 

I’m reminded of his comment about Sherlock Holmes being a role he plays, and I want to reassure him. He deserves to be certain I’m not here because of his fame. “I know, Sherlock. And to be honest, I am pretty sure I thought all of those things the first time we spoke, before I even recognised who you were. And, I must contradict you because I know for a fact that what’s going on in my brain cannot even remotely rival yours.”

Sherlock shakes his head and smiles, “No, you’re wrong. You are a mystery, John Watson.”

His words hang in the air between us and I force myself to swallow another sip of wine along with the compliment before continuing on with my meal, the conversation moving on to more conventional topics. While we chat, Angelo pops out to check on us and then returns with tiramisu and two forks. 

“On the house, gentlemen!” He sets it in the middle of the table and then glances knowingly between us, causing me to blush and Sherlock to roll his eyes, but we dig into the dessert once he leaves, giggling around each bite.

The combination of delicious food, a lot of wine, and rather intense conversation has given me a content buzz as we leave Angelo’s to walk along Northumberland Street, now quiet, back towards Charing Cross. Our hands touch once, twice and then again. Each brush of his skin is driving me crazy and I want nothing more than to reach out and hold his hand, or pull him against me and kiss that mouth again, lush and wine-stained. But we’re about to step out into one of the busiest areas of London, much less private than my little street, so I’m not sure what’s allowed, what Sherlock would permit in public.

With each step closer to Trafalgar Square, I feel disappointment settle within me. We’re going to part ways and what, shake hands like colleagues or a briefly hug as mates? That just sounds awkward and completely unsatisfying. 

We’re about thirty metres from the Strand, and Sherlock stops. “John,” he says, eyes dark and voice deep and needy.

Jesus. 

Glancing around for somewhere less out in the open, somewhere away from prying eyes, I notice a fire exit for the building on the left, with a door inset a few feet into the exterior wall. Mind made up, I grab Sherlock’s hand, pulling him along beside me. This time, I’m the one guiding Sherlock to hide in the shadows, where passersby won’t notice us. I crowd him into the corner, the purple fabric of his shirt silky under my fingers. I can feel his chest rise and fall as we simply breathe each other in, Sherlock’s eyes darting between my eyes and my lips like he can’t decide where he wants to look. 

After a beat, we meet in the middle, lips crashing together as Sherlock’s large hands come up to cup my face, his palms warm against my cheeks, fingers pushing into my hair. This kiss is nothing like our first -- it’s like a tidal wave dragging me under, Sherlock’s lips and tongue moving against mine in a tumult; hot, wet, and rather messy. I haven’t been kissed like this in ages, if ever.

I know there are probably people passing by on the street behind me, but with Sherlock pressed against me, I can’t be bothered to care. I want him closer. I push my hands to curve around his narrow ribcage and splay on his back, moving into the space between his feet so that we’re pressed together, knee to chest.

Some dim part of my mind recognises that we’re basically groping each other in public, but he feels too bloody marvelous to stop. I’m now crushed against him, Sherlock’s arms holding tightly around my shoulders, pink rose clutched in one hand. As Sherlock’s mouth attacks mine with single-minded intent, I grab hold of his belt loop as an anchor point, lest I be swept away. 

Eventually, it becomes to much and I tear my mouth away and gasp for air, “Jesus Christ.” I press my forehead against the side of his jaw and try to catch my breath. I’m glad to notice that Sherlock is breathing as hard as I am, our chests rising and falling together. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” I say after a moment.

“That was entirely your fault,” he replies, voice soft and deep, his mouth right next to my ear. I shiver and press a kiss into the side of his neck, which elicits a delicious noise from Sherlock.

“I blame the dessert.”

“The dessert? Why?” A note of confusion sounds in Sherlock’s voice.

“Because you were practically obscene while eating it. Christ, your mouth and the way you licked your fork.” I want to moan just remembering it.

Sherlock pulls back. “Me? You were the one who kept licking his lips the whole time we were in the restaurant. It was highly distracting.”

I want to protest, but now that he points it out, I think I did spend most of dinner thinking about kissing him and licking my lips as a result. It wasn’t intentional, but I’m feeling rather smug about the idea of Sherlock being distracted by it throughout our meal. 

“You find my mouth distracting?” I ask, aiming for sultry, but it sounds ridiculous to my own ears and I end up giggling.

“Very,” Sherlock says with a smile, and he leans in to kiss me again, softer this time. 

We say our goodbyes there in the shadows, hushed and intimate, and I walk back to the Tube in a well-kissed, euphoric haze. My trip home passes without me noticing.

When I emerge back onto the street outside Ladbroke Grove Station, my phone chimes. Assuming it’s from Sherlock, I’m already grinning like an idiot as I pull my mobile from my pocket and swipe it open.

Abruptly, in the middle of the pavement, I stop walking.

Unknown  
Received 14/5/2018 23:15  
⟪This stops now.⟫

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I apologise to anyone who uses proper grammar and spelling when texting, Harry clearly doesn’t. This mainly goes out to @zigster-ao3 for putting her through Harry’s terrible texting multiple times. I also wanted to include an eggplant and a peach emoji in one of her texts but they didn't translate to AO3. Boo. 
> 
> \- If you haven’t gathered by now, John and Harry are working on a secret project together -- a comic book! You’ll learn more about this later!
> 
> \- The lights near Trafalgar Square are real - they’ve been used for the last couple years in memory of the Pulse Orlando attack. Read more here: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/london-pride-gay-and-trans-symbols-replace-little-green-man-on-traffic-lights-a7091541.html


	7. heading towards impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After mysterious texts, a mysterious man turns up in John's shop...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos so far -- you're all amazing and have truly spurred me on in writing this fic. I hope you continue to enjoy it! :)
> 
> And thank you to @eternaljohnlock and @zigster-ao3 for looking over this chapter. This chapter was a challenge and a half.  
> Your suggestions and comments helped me pull this bit of the story together after being very nervous to approach it! <3

I’ve never felt the need to look over my shoulder while walking home before, at least not in this part of London, but I do so tonight, picking up my pace, eyes and ears attuned to every slight noise and movement as I walk the half-mile back to my flat. It’s like I’m on patrol again, my body remembering what to do after years of drills and missions. By the time I reach my flat, blood is thrumming in my ears and my heart is racing. Taking the stairs two at a time, I quickly unlock my door, closing it behind me and ensuring that the Yale lock and the deadbolt are are both secure.

I pace the length of my sitting room, a refrain of ‘what the fuck’ running through my head on repeat. The first text was definitely alarming, and maybe it was stupid but I’d been able to put it out of my mind because of the way it was written. This latest text, however, feels like an actual threat. I can’t ignore this one.

Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I find Greg’s name and tap on it with shaky hands. It rings once, twice and then halfway through the third ring, he picks up.

“John?” Greg’s voice is deep and sleep-rough -- I didn’t even think about the time -- but I can also hear a note of worry laced through it. The fact that I’m phoning and not texting him is unusual enough, I suppose. 

“Shit, Greg. Sorry to wake you.”

“No, no, ‘s fine. What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“Um. . .” I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out how to frame this. “I went out with Sherlock tonight -- we had dinner.”

“Okay. And that went well or badly?”

“The date was good, amazing, really. But I, um, I got a text on my way home. From a number I didn’t recognise. It freaked me out a little.”

“What did it say?” Greg asks.

“‘This stops now.’”

There’s a pause. “And you think this is connected to your date with Sherlock?” he asks.

“Well, yes, I do. Because I got another one the other day, after Harry’s birthday dinner.”

“So you’re telling me you’ve received not one but two texts from an unknown number?” His voice is sharp with disbelief. Apparently he’s wide awake now.

I feel like a right idiot -- my only excuse being that I was too caught up in the whirlwind that is Sherlock. “Yes,” I admit, grudgingly.

“Jesus fucking Christ, John. What did the other one say?” 

I think back, trying to remember the oddly formal wording of that first text from the unknown number. “Something like ‘It’s come to my attention that you’ve met Sherlock Holmes. I suggest you stop seeing him immediately.’”

Greg makes a frustrated noise and I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you tell me before now, like right after you got that first text?” He’s struggling to keep his voice down -- Molly is probably asleep next to him -- but I can hear the exasperation, nonetheless. 

I curl my left hand into a fist and spit out defensively, “Because I didn’t. I chose to fucking ignore it because I didn’t want it to ruin things, plus Sherlock was texting me so I was a bit distracted. Sorry.”

“You’re worse than a fucking schoolgirl, mate.”

“Thanks for that. What the fuck do I do, Greg?”

“Send me screenshots of the texts and block the number. I’ll send them to some of the guys on duty and ask them to run the number, see what turns up. And if you get any other weird messages or phone calls or, I don't know, telegrams, you tell me, okay? Okay, John?” There’s an edge to his voice that he doesn’t usually have when he’s talking to me. 

“Yes! I got it!”

Greg exhales deeply. “Have you heard from Sherlock since you left him tonight?” 

“Shit. No, I haven’t! Do you think he’s in trouble?” I hadn’t even thought about the fact that Sherlock may be receiving these texts as well. 

“Call him. Tell him what’s going on and ask if he’s noticed anything suspicious. If you can’t get him, let me know and I can ask the guys to investigate.”

“Thanks, Greg, and sorry for being a moron.”

Greg gives a small laugh, “Let’s just get on top of this, yeah? Call Sherlock and let me know what you hear.”

We hang up and I immediately search out Sherlock’s number and frantically press ‘call’. It rings and rings and I silently plead for Sherlock to answer. Just when I think it’s going to go through to voicemail, he finally picks up.

“Hello, John,” he greets me, sounding surprised but pleased.

“Are you okay?” I rush out. Smooth, Watson, maybe try to not freak him out.

“Of course, I’m perfectly fine. Why -”

I interrupt him. “Where are you right now?”

“I'm at home. Why? What’s going on?”

“So, you’re at home and safe? Good.” I blow out a deep breath, relieved. At least Sherlock is okay, although I’m not sure what I would have done if he hadn’t answered or wasn’t safe and sound at home. Probably something stupid. “Um, you haven’t received any strange texts lately, have you?”

“No, the only people I’ve texted this weekend are you and my manager.”

“Okay, good.”

“John, what’s happened? You’re clearly upset.”

After another deep breath, I try to explain the situation for the second time in the span of a few minutes. I’m rambling a bit, but I manage to finish it coherently, tamping down on the anxiety that’s been building up inside of me since I stepped out of the Tube station.

“I cannot believe h- this. It’s entirely unacceptable!” Sherlock bursts out, anger vibrating through his voice. It startles me -- I’ve never heard him sound like that. After a pause, he continues, more collected now, “Unfortunately, these things aren’t too unusual for me, John. I am sorry that you’ve been subjected to it, however. But you’ve done the right thing by alerting the police -- I am certain Greg will ensure that it’s taken care of and I will most definitely follow it up on my end. You shouldn’t be bothered again.”

“But what about you?”

“No need to worry about me -- I’ve got security measures in place.” 

“Okay. . . That’s it? Sherlock, someone’s clearly watching you, us! And they know who I am and my mobile number!”

“Yes, I’m aware,” he says, rather curtly, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Right.”

“It’ll be fine, John. I’ve got people to handle these sorts of things.”

His response feels so dismissive and it rankles. This isn’t a normal occurrence, regardless of one’s celebrity status, and here he is being rather blasé about the whole ordeal, almost like I am overreacting to the text. I’m not though, of that I’m certain. 

“Will you keep me updated?” I ask, irritated now.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, distantly. “I need to make a call. Good night, John.”

And apparently our conversation is over. I say a curt goodbye, too annoyed to be polite to him any longer. It’s as though he doesn’t even care, about the situation or the fact that I’m upset. Is he so used to things like this that he doesn’t see the need to worry? Does he think I’m being ridiculous?

Chucking my phone down on the sofa, I attack the buttons of my shirt, stripping off my date outfit as I stomp to my bedroom to change into my pyjamas, pulling them on far too aggressively, but I need an outlet and being stroppy seems to help. Then I remember I need to let Greg know I’ve spoken to Sherlock so I stomp back out to the sitting room to retrieve my phone and punch out a message.

⟪Sherlock’s fine and hasn’t received any texts. He doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal. Being a complete git, actually.⟫ 

⟪First lovers’ quarrel, hm? Glad he’s all right though. The number didn’t give us anything - probably a burner. So even though you’ve blocked it, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got more from another number. If you do, send me the screenshots and we’ll add them to the file.⟫

Shit. I completely forgot about blocking it. I really am a mess. I text an affirmative to Greg and then spend five minutes trying to figure out how to block the number. Bloody smartphone making me feel like an idiot.

***

The next morning dawns grey and rainy, which is perfectly fitting, really. Still annoyed after the events of last night, I grumble my way through my morning routine and hustle to the shop under the cover of my umbrella. Thankfully, even Anderson is able to sense that I’m not in the mood to chat today and quietly goes about straightening the shelves, keeping his distance from me as I storm about behind the till, not really accomplishing much. 

Business is usually slower on rainy days, with the market being less of a draw, resulting in lower foot-traffic outside the shop as well. Despite the rain, however, a customer ventures in, shaking off her umbrella and leaving it just inside the door, where it drips a puddle of water on the floor. This only serves to irritate me more, which I know is ridiculous, but I can’t help it. As I’m glaring at the offending puddle, Anderson shuffles over and mutters, “I’ve got this, boss,” and nods towards the office.

It’s rare that I feel grateful to have Anderson in the shop, but there are exceptions and today I accept his help and hide myself away in the office for the rest of the morning. Besides sorting through a stack of papers on the desk, I attempt nothing else productive, instead choosing to play solitaire on the computer. Greg texts at one point asking if I’ve received any other messages and I’m able to stem his worry as well as my own. 

“Hey, boss,” Anderson’s head pops around the office door, “I’m gonna go grab some lunch. Want me to pick something up for you?”

I’m not particularly hungry, but I ask for a sandwich and a coffee anyway. 

With Anderson out of the shop, I have to cover the till so I emerge from the office grudgingly, like a bear woken too early from hibernation. It’s been quiet today and I hope it stays that way. While I wait for my lunch to be delivered, I doodle on some scraps of paper, attempting to plan the next section of the comic book. After ten minutes, I only have a loosely connected series of words and drawings, which will need a lot more work before I can hand it over to Harry, but it’s a start.

The bell over the door rings and I glance up from the paper in front of me, expecting Anderson, but instead I see the back of a finely dressed, balding gentleman who is shaking out his umbrella in the doorway. With precise movements of habit, he snaps his umbrella closed and hooks the cane handle over his elbow before stepping inside and closing the door behind him. 

He turns to survey the shop, a distinct look of displeasure on his pinched face, before his hard gaze settles on me. There’s something about the man that immediately causes me to be on alert.

I force myself into uttering a greeting. “Hello, can I help you find something?”

“No, I will not be purchasing anything from you today.” His gaze rakes over me, pausing at my shoulder. “Perhaps you should sit, Mr. Watson, your old war injuries must be causing you some pain in this weather.”

It’s like ice running through my veins. I don’t know how he knows who I am or about my injury, but I immediately square myself up, shoulders pulled back in a defensive posture, my fists clenched. I grit out, “I don’t need to sit down.”

The man narrows his eyes at me. Like a few puffed up officers I encountered during my Army days, the way the man carries himself implies that he’s used to being obeyed, fury and impatience percolating under a calm, refined surface. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.” 

“Ah, of course,” the man says, lips pulling into a pursed half-smile. “Some might call you brave, but I have found that the bravest of men can be the stupidest, especially when it comes to self-preservation,” he pauses as though gauging my reaction, and I try to keep my face blank. “Mr. Watson, you have not heeded my warnings thus far so I thought it might be better to deliver another in person.” 

The term ‘escalation’ pops into my mind. He’s moved on from sending text messages and now has the nerve to stand in my shop. The fact that this person, this stranger, thinks he has any right to interfere in our lives is galling. How he’s connected to Sherlock, if he is at all, remains unclear -- perhaps he’s some billionaire playboy who thinks he can buy the attention of celebrities. 

“Who are you?” The inflection implies a question, but it comes out as a command. I’m used to giving orders as well.

“A concerned party,” he replies smoothly.

“Concerned for whom? Seems to me like you’re sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, mate.” He grimaces at being called ‘mate’ and I give myself a mental high-five.

“I believe you’ll find that Sherlock Holmes is my business, and therefore, so are you.”

“And I believe that you’ve got fuck-all to do with me and I highly doubt Sherlock wants you getting involved in his life.”

The man sniffs. “Sherlock does not always know what is best for him.”

“Oh, and you do?” I stare the man down for a few seconds before continuing, “He’s a grown man, who is clearly intelligent and talented. I’m fairly certain he can make up his own mind about what’s best for him, and if that includes me, then that’s up to him.”

“You are very loyal, very quickly, Mr. Watson.”

“I just don’t respect those who threaten me or my friends.”

“Friends, is that what you are? Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”

“Well, he’s got me,” I say stubbornly. 

“Mmm, yes. We’ll see how long that lasts.” 

“I think it’s time you left, _sir_ , and I will be alerting the police, just in case you get it into your head to come around again sometime.”

The man smiles then, reptilian and smug. “Best of luck with that, Mr. Watson. I shall be watching.” With that, he turns and shows himself out of the shop, bell tinkling to mark his departure. 

I stand behind the counter, frozen in place for a few moments after he leaves, adrenaline coursing through me. Once I’m sure he’s gone, I can feel panic taking over and I sit down, breathing out ragged breaths and trying to calm my racing heart. What the hell was that? 

This situation has taken on another level of sinister since the text messages. That man clearly has power and influence and some sort of possessive fixation on Sherlock. I wonder if Sherlock has had encounters with him before or if he’s just been watching from afar, after all he’s been texting me about my connection to Sherlock and not Sherlock himself. He clearly thinks he can scare me off, to keep me away from Sherlock, but why is that his goal? It’s as though he views anyone who gets close to Sherlock as a threat, but a threat to what? That’s what I don’t understand. It really isn’t his business if Sherlock and I are dating, if that’s what we’re doing. But he seems to think it is, and his final words, that he’d be watching, leave me feeling uneasy. 

As I’m having my little freakout, Anderson’s returns, sheltering our lunches under his coat. Now that he’s back, I realise how perfectly timed the man’s visit was. He was waiting until I was alone to confront me -- no witnesses that way. 

In a way, I’m glad. I don’t want to involve Anderson in this mess, even if he does annoy the shit out of me sometimes. I’d rather keep it contained and get it over with as soon as possible. And thank god for CCTV. With that thought, I realise I should call Greg. 

“Your lunch is served, boss!” Anderson’s attempt at being upbeat is appreciated but it falls flat nonetheless. 

I take my sandwich and coffee from him. “Thanks, Anderson. Can you watch the till for a minute? I need to make a call.”

“Right-o!” 

I nod my thanks and he settles happily behind the counter, digging into his lunch before I’ve even made it to the office. 

Closing the door behind me, I deposit my lunch on the desk carelessly and attack the computer mouse, shaking it violently across the hard surface of the desk. The computer has been sitting idle for the last hour and the screen has gone to sleep. Once it’s woken from its nap, all too slowly for my liking, I click on the icon for the security package I’d had installed in the shop.

After logging into the control window, I locate the tab for CCTV and scan back about fifteen minutes to when the man was in the shop. 

The screen is black. 

I scroll through the footage and at 13:27 it cuts out and stays black for just over twelve minutes, when it shows Anderson re-entering the shop from picking up our lunches. 

“There’s nothing here,” I gasp.

It’s like a punch to the gut. No wonder that asshole was smug when he left. How the fuck did he mess with my CCTV? 

With shaking hands, I pull out my mobile to ring Greg and pray he’s not tied up with an investigation.

When he answers, he skips the pleasantries entirely. “John, what’s happened?”

“He was here, Greg. The guy who’s been sending the texts came to the shop!” It’s impossible to keep the note of hysteria out of my voice. 

“Did you recognise him? Have you seen him before?”

“No, I’ve never seen him before. He was a posh, arrogant bloke, probably wealthy and he somehow managed to hack my CCTV.”

“Wait, what? How is that possible?”

“I don’t know, but there’s an entire section of the footage missing!”

“Who else has been in the shop with you?”

“Just a few customers and Anderson, but he doesn’t touch this programme -- he doesn’t have the log-in details.” 

I can hear Greg cursing faintly on the other end of the line, like he’s pulled the phone away for a moment. “Do you think this guy’ll come back?”

“No, I don’t think he will, at least not soon. He seemed rather certain that his point had been made when he left.”

“Listen, I’ll send some guys around for a statement and to get a description of the guy. Maybe we can still track him down. Are you thinking about keeping the shop open this afternoon? Maybe you should lock up until the unit arrives.”

“No, I think it’ll be fine. Anderson is back now, and I think he specifically waited until he was out for lunch before coming in. It’s me he wants to threaten, but I don’t think he wants anyone else to know, which is fucking nuts.”

“It is. It’s really messed up, John. What has Sherlock gotten you involved in?”

This raises my hackles. “It’s not Sherlock’s fault that some nutjob is stalking him!”

Greg sighs. “No, I know it’s not, but this kind of thing didn’t happen to you before he came into your life. It’s just crazy, innit? If anything else happens, let me know, okay?”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks, Greg.”

“No problem. Love you, mate.”

This unexpected expression of endearment catches me off guard and I find myself choked up. I cough, “You too.”

After ringing off with Greg, the rest of the afternoon passes with me trying to pretend like nothing is wrong, which is made harder when two police officers turn up for my statement. Thankfully, there aren’t any customers in the shop when they arrive and I escort them into the office, ignoring Anderson’s shocked face. 

I’m proud of the fact that I’m able to recount the incident calmly and I feel like they leave with an accurate description of the man. Hopefully, they’re able to find something because I don’t want this to continue. After I show them out, it’s clear Anderson is bursting to ask questions. I can see the concern and curiosity at war within him, but I wave him off. 

Disappearing into the office again, I text Sherlock.

⟪Sherlock, the nutter sending the texts came into my shop today. Can I see you? So I can fill you in and make sure you’re okay?⟫ 

I hope that doesn’t come across too needy or over-the-top, but fuck it, it’s been a stressful day. As I wait for his reply, I play with a wooden puzzle cube that’s found its way onto the desk at some point. I fiddle with it absentmindedly, not remotely attempting to put it together correctly. There’s not enough space in my brain for that kind of focus.

After at least ten minutes, my phone buzzes and I nearly knock it off the desk in my scramble to pick it up. 

It’s Sherlock. Thank god. 

⟪I can be at your shop in twenty minutes. SH⟫

That wasn’t a very reassuring message. I glance at the clock -- it’s nearly quarter past five and I decide to close up early for the day. I send Anderson home with a promise he’ll still be paid for his full hours and then flick over the sign to ‘closed’ to keep away any potential customers. 

And then I wait. 

The rain hasn’t let up all day and Sherlock arrives with his coat collar turned up against the weather, his curls limp and dripping. My heart rate speeds up at the sight of him, but I’m also nervous. Things have been odd since we spoke last night.

“John, hello.” 

He steps farther into the shop, but we’re still on opposite sides of the counter and it feels like a barrier between us, so I walk over to him and reach out to grasp his arm, the feeling of the wet wool under my fingers and the solidity of his bones serving to ground me a bit.

“Hi,” I breathe out, looking up at his face, trying to channel his skills and assess what’s going on with him. “Thanks for coming.”

He smiles a bit then, and I relax slightly. “Are you okay?”

I shrug, unsure of how to answer that question. “Sherlock, do you know what’s going on? I just. . . well, this is all a bit crazy. Not just because a strange man turned up in my shop, but it also means that someone is interfering in your life and that’s just not on.”

“It’s possible that it is just an over-eager fan, which I’m afraid are all too common in my line of work.”

I shake my head. “You didn’t hear the way he was speaking. He’s not a fan. He’s a creep who thinks he’s entitled to be involved in this.” I gesture between us, not sure what to call our relationship yet. “I tried to queue up the CCTV but it’d been wiped. Sherlock, this guy clearly has money and contacts, at least enough to hack into my system.”

“Have you told Greg?”

“Yes, of course. I phoned him as soon as the man left. The police came in for a statement and a description of him earlier.”

Sherlock hums, thinking.

“And you’re sure you haven’t experienced anything out of the ordinary?” I ask. 

At his nod, I continue, “So he’s just been contacting me, surely that’s weird for a celebrity stalker?” I pause with a dawning realisation of what I’d implied, “Not that I want him coming after you instead of me! I mean, I just don’t see why he cares who you spend time with.”

He’s quiet for a few minutes. I watch him, but he doesn’t seem to see me. His brain is processing, sorting through the relevant details and solving the problem in front of him. I wish I could be inside his mind to witness it, to see how he does it and I feel a pang at the realisation that such a thing will never be possible. 

He comes back to himself suddenly and looks at me, eyes sad, and I really don’t want to know whatever conclusion he’s reached.

“No,” I say, harshly, “Whatever you’re thinking, just stop it.”

“John, I have to go.” 

I throw my hands up in the air. “But that is exactly what he wants! If you go, he wins, this crazy stalker of yours wins! The police are on it, we can do something to figure out who he is and get a restraining order or something.”

Sherlock shakes his head, stepping closer. “It’ll never stop, John. Don’t you understand? As long as I’m me, there will always be someone watching.”

“So what, are you just going to live your life, isolated and alone?” 

“I knew what I signed up for when I got into this business. I knew the risks.”

“But you can have both, Sherlock -- a successful career and a personal life! It doesn’t have to be one or the other. There are ways to stop people like him, there must be!” I stare up at him, challengingly, hands on my hips. I don’t want him to just give in -- we’ve barely had any time together, but it’s like we’re in a car and the brakes have gone. We’re gathering speed and heading towards impact.

He shakes his head again, curls falling across his forehead, and then shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. I realise then that he’s still wearing it, all buttoned up, like he never intended to stay.

“There are, and that’s why I have to go.”

He’s made his choice then, and I feel like I’ve been played for a fool. A couple dates with a pretty actor and I’ve been mesmerised by the butterflies in my stomach and glittering fantasies to the point that I forgot who I am and what my ordinary life is like. 

“That’s it?” I hate how small my voice sounds. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I think goodbye is traditional,” Sherlock says, he reaches out a hand as though to comfort me or shake my hand and then withdraws it quickly. With a small nod, he adds, “Goodbye, John.”

I watch him leave, stunned.

“Goodbye,” I whisper to the empty shop. 

***

A week passes. 

I spend much of that time alternating between fretting and raging. I text Sherlock twice, but he doesn’t respond. 

One afternoon, my phone buzzes in my pocket just as I’m waving a customer away after she’s purchased a guidebook for the Pacific Coast Trail -- there’s been increased interest in that trek since the film _Wild_ came out. Expecting another concerned text from Greg, I’m completely surprised when Sherlock’s name appears on my screen. A small bubble of hope forms as I swipe my phone open, but it’s quickly popped as I read the message he’s sent.

⟪John - It has been pointed out to me that ignoring to your messages is perhaps horribly unfair to you. While I am clearly unsuited to romantic entanglements, you do deserve better than my silence. It was a pleasure to meet you and I take responsibility for how this liaison turned out. I do not think a relationship is a real possibility in my life, not when the work must come first. I’m sorry. SH⟫ 

***

On Sunday, I wake up groggy and out of sorts after a poor night’s sleep. It’s tempting to stay in bed all day, but that would achieve nothing. I’d just lay there stewing in my confusion, hurt, and anger from the last week. Huffing out a long sigh, I heave myself out of my bed, shuffle into the loo to take a piss and then make my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. 

As the kettle boils, I retrieve The Guardian from where it’s dropped just inside the front door. I flip through the pages as I potter about the kitchen, taking in a headline here and there. I linger over my cup of tea, cradling it in my hands as I read a depressing story of yet another mass shooting in America. How many more of those are they going to let happen before they actually do something?

I shake my head in disgust and turn the pages, continuing to scan headlines at random and ignoring the puzzle section completely. Near the back of the paper, I’m confronted with a photograph of Sherlock accompanied by a short news story. He’s climbing out of a car, dressed in his long, dark coat and waving stiffly at the photographer and, I’m assuming, a crowd of his adoring fans. The headline reads: 

_Noble bachelor Sherlock Holmes arrives in Vienna to begin filming his new project_

Well, that’s that then. He’s really gone.


	8. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: If this story was a film, I think _Dying Inside_ by Gary Barlow would be playing over the scenes in this chapter, just to drive home the point, so if you feel like moping along with John, please listen to it here: https://open.spotify.com/track/65qVHPRqkkIHqdkdPg2v5o?si=wtAySjW0Q7-8-Jz_GdazTQ

For a brief moment, I had a glimpse of another life, a dream, really, and then I woke up and none of it was real. 

Meeting Sherlock was brilliant, but he is also, you know, a million miles from the world I live in. For a moment, he ventured to walk amongst us commoners, only to flit away again when it was apparent he didn’t belong. 

A day passes, and then another and another. 

The weeks blur together as life resettles around me. 

On the face of it, I fall into a routine that resembles my life before Sherlock stumbled into it. I focus on my work at the shop, putting more effort into increasing profits because I need this venture to survive. I spend time with my friends so I don’t just wallow in my flat alone. I visit my therapist and work on new pages for Harry. 

I knew Sherlock for less than two weeks, and yet he seems to have left a permanent stain on the fabric of my life.

I think about him at odd times nearly every day, especially when I see something that reminds me of him or when Anderson does something stupid and I know it would make him laugh or when I simply wish I could hear his voice.

I don’t say anything to Greg, Harry or the others, and except for one outburst full of expletives from Harry just after Sherlock left, they don’t bring him up. I’m sure they know I’m being pathetic and pining over him, but they’re kind enough to leave me be, not even a mention of him when we next play Brownie of Despair. (Of course, the name has stuck, which seems rather ironic now.)

It is what it is. 

One unbearably hot and muggy night in July, I can’t sleep, and after thrashing around in my bed, sweaty and annoyed, for hours, I wander back to the sitting room and plop down in my chair to watch some telly.

I flick on the television and there is Sherlock’s face, all hard angles and flinty stare. It shocks the breath out of me to see him again, if only on my television screen. I’ve been going out of my way not to see him over the last couple months, so the mental image that I had of him has blurred a bit, but now it comes back into sharp focus.

I want to change the channel, but I just can’t seem to do so. I end up watching the rest of the film. It’s the one Angelo mentioned -- _The Solitary Cyclist_. Sherlock plays a doctor, living on the Devon coast at the turn of the century, who believes he is being stalked. Angelo does appear in a scene in the pub and Sherlock’s performance is amazing. 

When I turn it off at three in the morning, I feel strangely at peace and I’m able to fall asleep, despite the heat.

And so begins a new habit -- whenever I can’t sleep, which is often, I watch something else from Sherlock’s filmography. I start with his earliest work and then over the weeks, progress through his entire IMDB page.

_The Solitary Cyclist_

_The Wings of the Dove_

_The Missing Three-Quarter_

_Bohemia_

By October, I’ve watched all twenty-two of his films, plus random episodes of a few television series from the late 90s and early 00s. 

After seeing his work, I feel like I know him better. I can see what drew him to each part -- each character he portrayed allowed him to explore different aspects of the human condition. His choices seem purposeful and inquisitive, like he’s grasping to understand something, to find something, maybe. It’s like witnessing Sherlock grow up and become the man he is today. I wish I could tell him what an honour it is to experience his talent because he truly is special. 

I miss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we’re halfway there! I honestly can’t believe I’ve made it this far -- a multi-chapter fic was, and still is, a daunting prospect, but I’m so proud of what I’ve pulled together and it’s been a joy to experience your reactions to each chapter. Thank you so much!
> 
> And while it’s not the end of the angst, I promise it will get better quickly and we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programme of Sherlock and John being absurdly adorable. Stick with me!


	9. a distinct gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What will the autumn winds stir up in John's life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me - hopefully things start looking up from here on out!
> 
> And, as ever, thanks to my lovely betas @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock for looking this one over! <3

The weather has turned. 

Last week, there was still a hint of summer, days infused with an unseasonable warmth. Now the air is crisp and the city is a burst of colour, the leaves changing from green to a bright array of yellows, oranges and reds, lit by the weak autumn sun. At times like this, my walk to and from work is the best part of the day -- the world seems more beautiful than it has been in a long time.

The weather invites people to wander through the streets of Notting Hill, like it’s the set of a romantic comedy and they’re falling in love amidst the market stalls and coffee shops. It’s constantly busy and the bell over the door chimes more and more often as more people filter in to peruse the shelves, so I can’t begrudge them their happiness. 

Actually, business has been better over the last few months and now I open QuickBooks without the sense of dread that had accompanied the task for so long. Amazingly, we’re in the black and I’ve been able to pay the bills, our wages, and build our reserves without worry. Maybe I’m not so rubbish at this whole small-business owner thing.

Today, with Anderson stationed at the till, I meander through the shop, checking on the customers who are browsing, answering questions and making suggestions when requested. One man has a million questions about New Zealand, and while I’ve never been, I’ve read enough to bullshit my way through my recommendations and he saunters off to pay for three books about the islands. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking of taking a holiday myself, somewhere far enough from here to make it feel like an escape but nowhere that’ll break the bank. Maybe next month when the November rains start to make London feel dreary and before the pre-Christmas shopping period when I hope the shop will be busy. 

I’m wandering through the section of the shop dedicated to the Mediterranean, left index finger running across the spines of the books, contemplating the possibility of going to Greece or Tunisia, when I register the bell ringing in the distance. Assuming it is Mr. New Zealand leaving with his purchases, I continue my little middle-of-the-day travel fantasy, envisioning myself with a book on a warm beach or walking through a bustling market. 

An arm descends around my shoulders, startling me back to reality. “Hey, Johnny,” Greg beams at me, before pulling me into an uncomfortable hug. He’s in his uniform, his helmet making him appear taller and the neon yellow of his jacket blinding in the dimmer light of the shop. 

“Greg, hi!” This is a surprise. Glancing over his shoulder, I see his partner standing at the door, impatiently waiting for him. Clearly they’re on patrol so this is just a quick visit.

“We were in the area so I thought I’d pop in to check that we were still on for drinks later.”

It’s Thursday -- for the last couple months, Greg, Mike and I have had standing plans to meet up for a drink after work once a week. I know why they insist on it, and while I wish they didn’t feel it necessary to check up on me, it has been nice to see them regularly and have a reason to be social. We choose a different pub each week and Mike has devised a complicated rating system to grade our experience at each one. It’s silly, I know, but it’s now part of the tradition. Tonight we’re planning on going to the Cock & Bottle -- Greg’s idea, suggested with a wink, to which I had rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, of course, mate. I can be there about seven.” The bank statement arrived in the post this morning, so I’ve got to go through to make sure everything’s in order after we close up for the day.

Greg claps me on the shoulder. “Perfect. Gotta run before Dimmock reports me for shirking my duties,” he says in a cheeky whisper. “See you later, mate!”

“Bye, Greg.”

He jogs out of the shop, following his partner Dimmock back onto the street. 

 

Later, after we've closed for the day, I’ve got the accounts open on the computer and the bank statement spread on the desk before me, calculator and highlighter at the ready. This is my least favourite part of my job -- it always takes me ages to work through the budgets and balance sheets and expense forms. The numbers tend to blur before my eyes and it’s a constant game of rewarding myself for completing each tiny task so that the books stay balanced. I hate it, but it’s necessary.

I scan through the statement. Everything is expected except for an unexplained jump in the electricity bill this month. I highlight the amount of the direct debit and make a note to follow it up with the electricity company tomorrow morning. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

I ignore it -- it’s locked and the sign is flipped to ‘closed’ so whoever it is can come back tomorrow. Shuffling the bank statement back in order, I set it to the side and begin to shut down the computer. 

Another knock, louder this time. 

Annoyed, I walk to the door of the office and call out, “We’re closed.” 

“Please, John.”

It’s dark outside and I can only make out an outline of the person standing on the other side of the glass, but I’d know that voice anywhere. I’ve spent the last three months listening to it -- I know how it sounds in different accents, when it whispers and when it shouts, and, from a memory, when it rumbled right next to my ear.

Sherlock. 

Part of me wants to turn around and hide, but I force myself to walk to the door, each step harder than the last, my heart in my throat. With shaking hands, I unlock the door and open it so that I’m face to face with Sherlock for the first time in five months. 

“Hi,” my brain supplies. It comes out a bit breathless, just seeing him again throws me for a loop.

He’s dressed to ward off the chill of the evening -- long grey coat, collar pulled up around his ears, a blue cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck, hands in his pocket. His eyes look haunted and his shoulders are slumped, the effect startles me, it’s so unlike his usual demeanor. 

“I’m sorry to drop in on you so unexpectedly and I’m sure my appearance at your door is inconvenient if not entirely unwanted, but. . .” He’d started with typical Sherlockian fervor, like he’s delivering a line in one of his films, but then he falters, words drying up. He stares at the ground for a moment, hands straining against his pockets, and then he looks up to meet my eye. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

What does he mean he didn’t know where else to go? A rush of panic zips down my spine like I haven’t felt since the incident with the strange texts. I scan the street behind Sherlock, wondering if we're being watched again, but nothing unusual catches my attention. While I don’t know what it is that has Sherlock worried, I also can’t leave him on the doorstep with that look on his face. Stepping back, I push the door wider so that he can enter and proceed to lock it again behind him. 

I watch him warily as he paces around the shop, glancing all around him, probably observing each small change that has taken place since he was last in. The silence stretches out between us and I wonder if he’s at as much of a loss as I am. For a situation like this, I cannot think of a single appropriate conversation starter. I lean on the edge of the counter and wait for him to sort through whatever is going on in his head and explain. Clearly, something has brought him to my door, agitated and anxious as he is. 

Finally, he says, “I needed to slip away, somewhere I wouldn’t be recognised, and this was the first place I thought of, which is absurd but true.”

While I’m sure he intends this to be a positive or at least a neutral statement, it comes across like a bit of an insult. “Erm. . . right.”

When he says nothing more, my impatience starts to get the best of me. “What’s going on, Sherlock? Why are you here?”

He gives me a long look, seeming to build up courage before saying, “Some news broke this evening, about me, and as it’s rather scandalous, the press, vultures that they are, have descended upon my flat, as well as my manager’s office, her home and my brother’s house.”

This piques my curiosity about the content of the news story, but I manage to tamp it down. “So you’re looking for somewhere to hide out?”

He nods.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know -- I’m not sure how long this will dominate the news cycle. A day, maybe two?” 

Well, shit. After the way things ended, I’m amazed that he turned up here. We haven’t seen or communicated with each other for months, and yet, in that time, I spent far more time than I care to admit thinking about him, part of that imagining what I’d say to him if I ever saw him again. In those daydreams, my first words to him were distant, friendly, angry or pleading, depending on the scenario I’d created in my head, but never did I think he would seek me out as a safe place to hide from gossip. How does he expect me to go along with this? I scrub my hands at the back of my head and turn away from him, trying to work out how to respond to this request. 

“John,” he says softly behind me, “I realise that I have no right to ask this of you and in all likelihood you will, and probably should, say no, but I would be very grateful for your help.”

I turn around to face him again -- he looks smaller than I remember, more tired around the eyes. With a sigh, I say, “Yes, of course, Sherlock, of course. I was just about to lock up anyway.”

He stands quietly by the counter while I ready the shop to close for the evening, cashing out and putting the deposit in the safe in the office to deal with tomorrow, closing down the till, and places the bags of rubbish out on the pavement. I can feel him watching me and it makes me hyper-aware of my movements as I go about these familiar tasks. Finally, jacket on, I’m ready to leave and nod towards the door. 

Sherlock waits on the pavement, hunched and turned towards the window, hiding his face, while I lock the door and the security gate. As we walk through the streets of Notting hill towards my flat, he follows closely at my elbow. It’s a bit surreal to have him next to me again, but the circumstances are so vastly different from before that I feel on edge.

It’s clear that neither of us is inclined to chat, so we make the journey in silence. The cool wind whips around us and leaves blow across our feet. The night air feels turbulent and charged, but that could just be my nerves. Arriving at my street door, I unlock it and stand back so that Sherlock can enter before me, assuming he’ll want to be out of the public eye as quickly as possible. 

We climb the stairs, me in front, Sherlock following behind, just like that first day we met. When we enter my flat, I shuck my jacket from my shoulders and hang it on one of the pegs in the hall. Sherlock follows suit, divesting himself of his long coat and scarf, placing them on the peg next to mine. I stare at our outerwear for a moment, hanging side by side, before shaking myself of the fanciful thoughts that start cropping up in my head and striding into the kitchen. 

This calls for tea.

I set about making tea for us without consulting Sherlock -- filling the kettle, fishing out clean mugs from the cupboard, depositing tea bags in each and adding sugar to one. I’m annoyed that I remember how he takes his tea after only making it for him once before. I turn to find him seated in my chair so I take the other as I place the cups on the table.

He sips his tea without comment, looking troubled and distant.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Okay.”

I glance at my watch. 

It’s quarter to seven, meaning I either have to text Greg to say I’m not coming tonight or head out the door. While it seems rude to leave Sherlock on his own when he’s clearly upset, I also don’t know if I can stay in the same room as him for another moment. The atmosphere is tense and uncomfortable, and if he’s not going to talk about what’s going on with him, then I anticipate the evening continuing in much the same manner. I don’t have the social grace to handle this situation with any degree of understanding and sensitivity. 

“Sherlock. I, um. I’ve got plans to meet up with Greg and Mike tonight. You’re welcome to come if you want -- although I see that’s unlikely given the circumstances -- or I can cancel, make plans for another night instead.”

Sherlock’s eyes focus on me and he says, “No, of course you should go, John. If you’re okay with leaving me here, that is.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs, playing at nonchalance. “I’ll be fine.”

“Have you eaten? I’ve not got much in, but I can stop for a takeaway on my way back. Any requests?”

He shakes his head and focuses on his tea again.

I get up from the table and tip the remaining tea in my cup down the drain. “I won’t be long,” I say, trying to be reassuring, and make to leave the kitchen to retrieve my jacket.

“John,” Sherlock says, and I pause at the door. “Thank you.”

He sounds so sincere and so unlike himself that I can’t take it. I nod decisively and perform an about face, grab my jacket and flee the flat as quickly as I can.

Hustling along the street, I fire off a text to both Greg and Mike to inform them that I’ll be a little late and continue to speed walk the twenty minutes to the pub, the physical exertion helping to mute the jumble of thoughts tumbling through my mind.

The windows of the pub are steamy, the cold exterior at odds with the warmth inside. It’s busy tonight, all the tables full and small groups of patrons cluster throughout the remaining space. I spy Greg and Mike at the bar and push my way through to join them. 

With barely a nod of acknowledgment, I flag down the bartender. “Bruichladdich. Double, please.”

“Hitting it hard tonight, are we?” Mike asks with a laugh, one eyebrow raised. 

“It’s necessary, believe me,” I reply. The bartender places the drink in front of me and I take a large pull of the whisky, enjoying the smoky burn as it travels down my throat. 

I proceed to finish off the glass in a succession of gulps and set the glass back on the bar. Greg and Mike exchange a glance.

Staring straight ahead at the bottles of alcohol that line the wall behind the bar, I say, “Sherlock is in my flat.”

“Sorry, what?” Greg asks, dumbfounded.

“He turned up at the shop as I was closing for the night and now he’s at my flat.”

“I still don’t understand,” Greg says.

Mike adds, “Why the hell are you here, mate?”

An embarrassed flush creeps up the back of my neck. “I couldn’t stay there with him. It was too. . . much.”

“So. . . why is he here? What does he want?” Mike asks, getting the bartender’s attention and ordering a round of beer.

I play with my empty whisky glass and clear my throat. “Some news broke today, apparently, and the press are after him, so he was looking for some place they wouldn’t find him.” 

“News? About what?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

Greg pulls out his phone, “Well, we can find out?”

“No!” I yelp, pulling the phone out of his hands. Although my own curiosity is eating away at me, I can’t stomach the idea of seeking out the story on the gossip sites. If I am to find out any of the details, then Sherlock needs to tell me himself. Anything else would be horribly unfair. “It’s just, you know, the likes of the Sun or the Daily Mail are going to be ruthless whatever it is. I don’t want it to be, well, gossip. This is about Sherlock, about his life. I don’t want to know what the papers have to say.”

Greg wrinkles his nose in a grimace and retrieves his phone from my grip, sliding it back into his pocket. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“How did he seem? Is he holding up okay?” Mike asks. 

“Not really. I mean, the fact that he turned up at my door seems to be an indication that things are very much not all right. It’s just not something I would have pictured him doing, hiding out, I mean. He’s quieter and drawn in on himself.”

Our drinks arrive and Mike slides one pint to Greg, one to me and takes a sip of his own.

A bit of foam trails down the side of the pint glass, I mark it’s progress until it reaches the bar, leaving a wet ring on the wood. While it would be a simple thing to raise the glass to my lips, beer suddenly seems wholly unappealing. 

I’m realise that I'm being a total idiot, coming to a pub to drink with my mates while Sherlock is going through some kind of personal hell at the moment. Leaving Sherlock alone in my flat was a total shit move. “I need to go,” I say, loudly, insistent. “Sorry, guys, I just. . . can’t be here.”

“It’s alright, mate,” Greg says, clapping my shoulder and turning me towards the door. “Go be with him. Sounds like he could use someone by his side.”

“Greg’s right, John. Off with you now. Let us know if we can help.”

I look at them both, grateful for their understanding. “Cheers. I, um, I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Just go, John,” Greg says, nudging me towards the door.

And so I go. With a new sense of determination, I push my way back out of the pub and stride along the street, back the way I came. 

Halfway home, I pop into a Thai takeaway to order some food for us both. I have no clue what Sherlock prefers, so I order a few different mains as well as some spring rolls, fishcakes and chicken satay -- far too much food for just two people. The wait feels interminable, but my order is finally called and I take the bag, thrusting a few banknotes at the woman and not waiting for my change.

Ten minutes later, I’m at my door. I take a deep breath before putting the key in the lock and pushing into my flat.

“Sherlock?” I call out, setting the bag of takeaway on the floor so I can take off my jacket, hanging it next to Sherlock’s coat once again.

“You’re back,” Sherlock says, appearing in the doorway of the sitting room. He sounds surprised. I’ve only been gone an hour. 

“Erm, yeah. Wasn’t important, really. Besides, I was hungry -- picked up some Thai food, if that’s okay?” Without waiting for a response, I head into the kitchen to collect some plates and forks, carrying the lot into the sitting room and depositing it on the coffee table. Sherlock trails behind me. “I didn’t know what you’d like so I just got a bunch of stuff. Hopefully there’s something here that sounds good to you.”

I sit down on the sofa and start taking the food out of the bag, opening containers and scooping a little bit of everything onto the plate in front of me. Sherlock sits down next to me, spine straight, and looks over the assortment of food in front of him, eventually choosing some pork Pad See Ew and serving some onto his plate. 

There’s a book on the side table next to the armchair that I haven’t looked at in years, so apparently Sherlock had perused my bookshelves while I was out. I envision him curling his legs up underneath him as he sits in my armchair to read, and when I realise how much I like that idea, I focus back on my food. 

“It’s good,” Sherlock offers after a few minutes. “Thank you for dinner, John.”

I swallow my mouthful of green curry with prawn. “It’s no bother. Glad you found something you like.” 

This is so awkward, and he’s still sitting bolt upright on the sofa, which is just adding to the tension. The combination of our history and whatever drama is currently brewing in the press seems to be weighing on him heavily; it’s weighing upon me as well, and I’m only tangentially connected to it. I don’t know how to make him feel comfortable here, but I’m determined to try. 

I push my shoes off, curl my left leg under me and pull my plate into my lap, leaning back on the arm of the sofa. Sherlock glances over at me and I offer him a smile, and he frowns in response. 

“Do you know?”

“Do I know what the news story is? No, I don’t.” 

“You had every opportunity to look it up while you were out.” His eyes are hard when he looks at me, chin held high.

“That’s true, but that’s also why I came back. I realised I didn’t want to hear about it from anyone but you.” After a pause, I add, “If you want to tell me.”

He scrutinises me for a few minutes, but I hold his gaze, remembering now what it feels like to be at the receiving end of his assessing look. Finally, he looks away, depositing his plate on the table, meal only half-eaten, and slumps back into the sofa, losing some of the rigidity that he’s carried in him since he first appeared at the shop.

“We’ve worked hard to keep this particular secret hidden from the press for a number of years, but I suppose it was only a matter of time until someone finally leaked it.”

My imagination takes over for a second and I can’t help but think of any number of secrets this could be -- Sherlock had called it salacious earlier. 

“It’s not terribly unusual, but it would have derailed my career if it had broken at the time, at least that’s what I was led to believe.” 

He pauses for a few minutes and then he launches into the story. “When I was young and just getting involved in the industry, there was suddenly a host of new temptations, things I’d never experienced before in my relatively sheltered early life. And with some pressure from a ‘friend’, a fellow actor, I gave in, too curious about trying everything, which led to increasingly poor choices and some erratic behaviour. I eventually ended up in rehab thanks to an intervention by my meddling brother. Mycroft was able to create excuses and cover up my absence, but if you look closely at the list of my films, you’d notice a distinct gap in my work about eleven years ago.”

I think back over Sherlock’s IMDB page, which I am overly familiar with by now, and I can see the point he’s talking about. “After _Three Gables_?” 

He looks at me sharply. “Yes.”

I blush at what he can probably read on my face, so I just fess up to it. “I watched them all after you left.” 

“Oh.” His expression softens and some of the Sherlock I knew seems to be seeping back into him and I have to look away from his face. It’s too confusing.

The idea of a young Sherlock, lost in the bacchanalian world of the film industry and battling addiction makes me inexpressibly sad. It’s also hard to make sense of it in relation to the man I got to know five months ago, who was warm, charming, funny, and seemingly so centred and focused. But then, he’s obviously been on his own journey over the last decade, changing, discovering, becoming a different man. 

The personal struggle of addiction is difficult for anyone, I know -- memories of my father’s long descent into alcoholism stick with me still -- but I imagine it’s even more complicated when you’re a public figure. It can’t be pleasant for the darker parts of your life to be picked apart by the world.

I shovel another forkful of rice into my mouth, and then ask, “So how did the story leak, do you know?”

Sherlock scowls, “Not yet, but Mycroft is undoubtedly on it, terrorising staff of the rehab centre and journalists, alike.”

“Do you have any ideas for how you’re going to handle this? With the press, I mean.” 

“My manager and publicist will certainly be strategising as we speak, debating when and how to address it. I expect they’ll track me down to make a statement soon.”

“Well, you can stay as long as you need.” And I mean it, something I didn’t expect to be saying two hours ago.

Sherlock looks at me for a long moment, his eyes showing a rapid flickering of emotions. He nods in thanks and then picks up his plate once more. 

I turn on the TV and we spend the next couple hours flipping through stations until we settle on the latest James Bond installment. Sherlock snorts repeatedly throughout the film, but it’s less derisive than during the various reality programmes that we’d watched earlier. Eventually, I find myself yawning, so I pack up the leftovers and make room for them in the refrigerator. Then I dig out some spare blankets and pillows and, so that he has something to wear to bed, a pair of flannel pyjama pants and a t-shirt, despite the fact that they’ll be too small for him. 

“You sure you’re okay on the sofa?” I ask, depositing the pile of linens in the space I’d vacated. 

“It’s fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“Okay. Anything else you need?” I’m just fussing now -- I’m loath to leave him on his own.

“No, John, but thank you.” 

“Well, good night, then.”

He musters a smile. “Good night.”

I shuffle down the corridor to brush my teeth, change into my pyjamas and climb into bed. Despite being exhausted, it takes me a long time to fall asleep. I can’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s admission of addiction and rehab. While I still wonder at the details of it, I want to respect his privacy and his right to keep them to himself. 

I’m also overwhelmed by the fact that he’s here at all. The hurt from before is still there, tender around the edges because I don’t really understand why he ended things and left like he did. Yet another thing we haven’t talked about, I suppose, and maybe we never will. Perhaps this is just a momentary safe haven and nothing more. But he did choose me, a man he knew briefly nearly half a year ago, to share his distress, and now he is here in my flat again, fifteen feet away, separated by two thin walls. I don’t know what that means. 

I fall asleep still turning it over in my mind, examining it from all angles, trying to make sense of the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The storyline of this chapter was determined not by me but by the characters. John and Sherlock just did things and I had to keep up.  
> \- Just in case anyone was wondering, QuickBooks is an accounting software for small businesses. I know nothing of accounting, but it’s what we use at work so I thought I’d throw that little detail in.  
> \- The Cock & Bottle is a real pub in Notting Hill. I’ve not been, but the name was too good to pass up -- Greg just couldn't resist the joke.


	10. a mixed bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face and a new face turn up at John's flat and he is not best pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long time between updates - I was in London last week and took a wee break from writing, but we're back to our regularly scheduled programme, so hopefully it'll be smooth sailing from here until the end. I hated this chapter at first, and then I loved it. I hope it is as satisfying to read as it was to write in the end, and worth the wait! Thank you so much to all of you reading along - your comments and enthusiasm keep me going!
> 
> And as always, thank you to my betas @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock. You guys are the best! x

Early the next morning, I’m awakened by raised voices coming from the sitting room. The shift from asleep to full alertness comes quickly, a learned habit from my Army days, and as I take stock of the situation, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end with the realisation that someone else is in my flat, someone with whom Sherlock is arguing. I can hear Sherlock’s deep baritone, barking harsh but indistinct words, and he’s answered by another male voice, low and hissing. 

Pushing back the navy duvet, I throw my dressing gown over my pyjamas before easing open the bedroom door to creep into the corridor, the voices increasing in volume as I approach the sitting room. Hidden in the shadows, I can see Sherlock, framed by the doorway, standing in front of the sofa. He’s clad in the pyjamas I lent him -- grey t-shirt stretched over his torso and his bony ankles showing beneath the too-short hem of the flannel pants. It’d be endearing if he wasn’t ranting and waving his hands through the air at someone across the room, still hidden from view.

Sherlock appears to sense me watching because he stops his tirade and glances through the door at me, his eyes tinged with irritation and, surprisingly, guilt. “John, good morning,” he says, before crisply turning back to face his adversary across the room.

Now that I’ve been acknowledged, I step into the room to stand next to him and my eyes are drawn to the stranger opposite us. Taking him in -- the elegant suit, the umbrella resting against my chair, a general air of coldness -- the breath is knocked from my lungs and adrenaline floods my veins. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing in my flat?” I demand, pulling my shoulders back to square up to this vile man once again. After so many months, the incident in the shop had started to fade and I was able to go through my days without looking over my shoulder anymore, but now he’s standing in my flat and it’s as if no time has passed. I’m shocked, obviously, but I mainly feel angry that my space -- first the shop and now my home -- has been invaded by Sherlock’s stalker. 

The man smirks. “Sherlock, perhaps you would care to introduce us?”

The casual way he asks the question causes my mouth to drop open as I turn back to Sherlock, questions flying through my mind. Sherlock won’t meet my eye, instead he glares at the man and says, “John, this is my horrid brother, Mycroft.”

“He’s your brother?” I ask, my voice coming out sharper and higher pitched than normal. 

“Yes, and he doesn’t know when to keep his unattractively large nose out of my business.” Sherlock sounds every bit the quarrelsome younger brother. 

Mycroft sniffs. “Oh, please, Sherlock. Can we do without the childish insults today? I do believe there are bigger issues to address.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in return, and appears to be formulating his next sharp comment, perhaps continuing the argument they were having before I entered the room. The idea that they are going to carry on sniping at each other and ignore the fact that I was threatened, multiple times, by this man pisses me off. 

“Did you know?” I spit at Sherlock. “Did you know it was him all those months ago?”

Sherlock looks at me briefly before his eyes skitter away. “Yes.”

This admission feels like a punch to the solar plexus. My hands clench into fists and I attempt to calm the rage coursing through my body. I look between them and, for first time, notice the family resemblance in some of their features, which only serves to piss me off even more. 

“Sherlock, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Sherlock had taken a step towards me, but then draws up short. “John, it’s what was necessary. I --”

“Necessary?” I repeat, in disbelief. I rack my brain, trying to imagine what reason he could possibly have to justify keeping this a secret and cannot think of a single one. “Necessary? No, what the hell, Sherlock.” I take a few steps back to put some space between us, spreading my hands out wide in question, “Your brother? Jesus Christ.” 

“A bit not good, I know.” He smiles briefly, trying to brush it off with charm, but uncertainty creeps into his eyes.

If he knew that his brother was harassing me, and yet pretended it was just some crazy fan, then I can only assume he was seeking a reason to end our relationship and his brother provided a convenient excuse. Instead of being an adult about his change of heart, he allowed me to feel terrorised by this man and now has the audacity to turn up at my flat and expect me to help him. 

I draw myself to my full height, what there is of it, and glare a him. “No. Just no, Sherlock. You do not get to use people like this. Jesus, I can’t believe you. I want you and your brother out of here.” 

When neither of them move, I bark, “Now!” 

“Oh, please stop with this melodramatic display,” Mycroft drawls. 

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock shouts and then steps closer to me. “John, please allow me to explain.” 

“I don’t think I really care about your excuses. Whatever game you two are playing, whatever fucked up game this is, I am not going to be involved.”

Across the room Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock approaches me, ignoring any rules about personal space, especially in the middle of a fight, and grasps my shoulders. He’s radiating intensity and I twist away from him, knocking his hands down and moving towards the sitting room door, exit route at the ready. I’m breathing hard through my nose and prepped for a fight. 

“John --” Sherlock says, hand out as though trying to gentle me as one would a horse. His eyes track my movement but he doesn’t come any closer. We stare at each other, forgetting for a moment that there’s someone else in the room, and then there’s a knock at the flat door. 

“Now what?” I grit out. Turning my back on Sherlock, I stomp across the corridor to throw it open. 

On my doorstep stands a thirty-something professional woman, looking remarkably pulled together for so early in the morning. She’s wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into a dark pencil skirt, some pointed high heels that seem more like torture devices than shoes, and her dark curly hair is pulled back in a pile on top of her head. She’s also juggling a drinks tray and a paper bag along with a large handbag and an armful of newspapers. 

“Who are you?” I demand, glaring at this additional intruder in my home. 

“Oh, you are a feisty one,” she says, grinning as she looks me over. “I can see why Sherlock was falling all over himself for you!” She pushes the drinks holder and paper bag at me and strides into the flat, leaving me behind in the corridor to shut the door. 

With a grumbled curse under my breath, I quickly follow after her and by the time I get to the sitting room, she’s dumped the newspapers on the coffee table and is scrolling through her phone. “It’s all over the Daily Mail, obviously. They’ve already got six different articles up about you -- they’ve been hoping for something like this for years. Arseholes. The Sun, too, of course, and TMZ. People jumped on board this morning. They’re a bit more sympathetic to you than the others, but not by much.” 

Sherlock picks up one of the newspapers and flicks through the pages, pausing when he finds a news article about himself. I shift onto my toes to see over the edge of the paper and can just glimpse an unflattering picture of him on the opposite page. In the photo, he’s caught mid-turn, his hands slightly blurred by motion and his face appearing frozen in an expression of absolute disgust. 

Despite the previous threats from his creepy brother and the fact that I’m completely furious with him for lying to me, I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that Sherlock is going through a shit time at the moment and is, apparently, being torn apart by the press. 

“It will only continue to spread,” Mycroft says, mouth pursed in annoyance. “What are you going to do about it?”

The woman flips him off and continues to scroll through her phone. “Comments are a mixed bag -- some people mentioning that rehab was a long time ago and shouldn’t be held against you now; others writing you off for being an addict.”

“Typical,” Sherlock grumbles, selecting another newspaper from the stack.

With the arrival of this woman, who’s clearly some member of Sherlock’s team, it seems I’ve been forgotten. I stand in the corner of the sitting room, listening to their conversation. In my hands is the drinks carrier and paper bag that she foisted upon me when she entered the flat. Glancing down at them now, I notice that the two cups are labelled -- one with an “S” and the other with a “J”. Something about seeing our initials together makes my insides feel funny. Sherlock must have texted her an order, and even through my annoyance, I’m oddly touched. I bite my lip to try to control my face so it doesn’t show any of the soppy thoughts that flit through my head.

I twist out the cup marked for Sherlock and set it on the table next to him and deposit the bag of sweet pastries beside it. Grudgingly, I take sip of the drink for me and nearly groan at the taste. It’s cappuccino perfection. 

Despite this being my home, I feel like I’m intruding, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. Do I demand that they leave? Should I go into the kitchen to give them some privacy? Uncertain, I sit awkwardly on the arm of the sofa and sip my coffee, attempting to simultaneously stake my claim on the sitting room, feed my own curiosity about the details of the situation, and be a silent support for Sherlock, especially when faced with these two overbearing people.

A mobile phone beeps with a notification. To my right, Sherlock looks up from the newspaper and studies his brother as Mycroft removes his phone from his inner jacket pocket and reads the message. 

“What is it?” Sherlock asks. 

“Anthea has managed to track down a list of employees who were at the clinic while you were there. She’s looking into their backgrounds to see if anyone has potential motive for leaking it to the press.”

The woman stops scrolling and looks thoughtful. “How long will that take?”

“No more than a few hours -- I have assigned three agents to help her search through the information.”

This gets my attention. Agents? Just who the fuck is Mycroft? At this point I have more questions than answers and I just want to make everyone stop and explain what the hell is going on. 

“Good. Let me know what you hear so we can quash any future leaks,” the woman says, turning from Mycroft back to Sherlock. “Well, it’s out now so we need to decide how we want to respond. We lost our chance of getting out in front of it when you bolted yesterday, Sherlock, so now it’s all about spin. We can release a short statement addressing the rumours -- they have evidence so we can’t deny it, just ensure that it fits our narrative. Perhaps gain some sympathy points, which shouldn’t be too hard considering half of the public is already in your corner.”

“Why do they even care? It was over a decade ago. Do they have nothing of importance to discuss? Idiots.” Sherlock flops back on the sofa, glaring at the newspapers on the table. 

“This is exactly what I said would happen, which is why we worked so hard to keep it a secret. The press are merciless and the general public is a mass of inane, gossiping fools with short attention spans. They are always looking for some scurrilous pulp to chew up before they spit it out and move on to the next. You are well aware of how things work by now, Sherlock.” 

“Oh, Mycroft, whatever would we do without you?” Sherlock snipes back. 

The woman taps her chin, looking thoughtful. “Well, perhaps we can play that to our advantage. This will only dominate the headlines until the next bit of celebrity gossip breaks, so we just need to control it as best we can. If we release a statement acknowledging your time in rehab as a young man, stating your ongoing sobriety and your commitment to your work, and emphasising the importance of privacy in regards to matters like this, then it’s possible to rein in the story and shift it from a flippant topic of personal gossip into a more serious conversation around drug use in the industry and the lack of support available, which removes the focus on you as an individual.”

“Fine, draft something, Sally,” Sherlock waves a hand at her and then sits up straighter on the sofa, “but let me see it before it’s released.”

“Of course. And we will need to think about how you’re going to handle questions when they inevitably arise on your upcoming press tour.”

“He won’t,” Mycroft says with finality.

“Excuse me?” The woman, Sally, glances up from tapping away on her phone, and looks at Mycroft like he’s the reason for a constant headache.

“Blacklist the topic. He shouldn’t be answering questions about this issue on his press tour. It will detract from the film and his bid for nominations.”

“We cannot simply ignore it. People will want to hear him say something about it, otherwise it just becomes the elephant in the room and his entire press tour will ring false,” Sally counters.

Mycroft scoffs. “‘People’ will just want more and more -- if you continue to pander to the depraved curiosity of the masses, then they’ll never move on from this aberration. Focus on the film.” He enunciates the final four words in the same way he spoke to me at the shop and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. 

“Ignoring it will make him seem like a machine, and a guilty one at that. No, he has to comment on it.”

“It will detract from everything we have been working towards his whole career.”

Sally rolls her eyes, “Or we can play it so that it works in his favour and builds the interest around this film. Either he talks about it himself or people will continue to speculate, undoubtedly embellishing the story with their own fantasties and prejudices, which will only make it worse! He will answer questions with simple, straightforward and _truthful_ responses.”

This is like watching a tennis match. I’m surprised that Sherlock is silent -- it seems like he should be continuing the argument I walked in on earlier, but he’s frozen on the sofa next to me, looking unlikely to jump in if this escalates. In response, I find myself on high alert, like I’m ready to spring into action if Mycroft and Sally descend into a brawl, coffee cup and dressing gown be damned. 

“You want to feed the beast.” The expression on Mycroft’s face is one of extreme disgust and animosity. “I have always wondered why Sherlock was so adamant about keeping you around -- your decision making is clearly questionable. But then, maybe that’s what attracts him to you? You are kindred spirits.”

“Oh, fuck off, Mycroft. I’m damn good at my job and you know it.”

“So coarse in your language, Ms. Donovan. Why would anyone take you seriously as a manager?”

Sally saunters over to Mycroft and she glares at him, jaw sticking out and hands on her hips. “Oh, and tell me, what experience do you have in handling publicity for a celebrity? Why should I listen to a goddamn thing you say about this?”

“He’s my brother.”

“He’s my client.”

Their silent standoff tips me over the edge.

“And _he’s_ right here.” 

The tension in the room breaks and three heads swivel around to look at me -- Mycroft deeply unimpressed, Sally slightly amused, and Sherlock. . . well, I can’t quite figure out the expression on his face, but I continue nonetheless, “Sherlock is right here, and this is his life. But you two are arguing as though it’s more important which one of you wins. Just stop your bickering and focus, maybe. God.” 

When I finish, I turn to see Sherlock smiling up at me in approval and, despite my earlier anger, I find myself grinning back at him, which seems to spur him into action.

Jumping up from the sofa, he’s a whirlwind of motion, pacing about the room. “Mycroft, get out. Sally, draft the statement and text it to me. I will answer questions about rehab, but interviewers will be briefed that they cannot focus on it or the interview will be terminated. The questions will simply be to address the rumours and then we’ll move on to the actual topic at hand, my role in _A Noble Bachelor_. If anyone disobeys this request, then you know I’ll have no problem walking out of the interview.”

Sally is making notes on her phone again, nodding as Sherlock speaks. “I’ll write up a strategy for these interviews and brief you on it later.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Sherlock. . .” she says, a warning edge to her voice.

“I said fine!” Sherlock snaps, flapping a hand at her, before turning to his brother. “Mycroft, why are you still here?”

Mycroft sniffs. “You are making a mistake, Sherlock.”

“And you are an interfering pudding stain. Get out!”

This insult makes me snort with laughter and I receive a sharp look from Mycroft as he bends to retrieve his umbrella and makes his way to the front door, posture perfect as though he’s trying to uphold his dignity after being called a ‘pudding stain’. 

“I'll keep you informed,” he says to Sally as he passes her on the way to the door. 

Once he’s out of my flat, I breathe a sigh of relief and Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with triumph and mirth and for a moment I can’t look away.

Sally is still talking and I focus in on what she’s saying. 

“. . . still surrounded so you’re best staying away for awhile, and maybe don’t go out at all, at least not for a couple days, if you can avoid it. Let us handle it from the office -- don’t give them any other ammunition to use against you,” she tells Sherlock and then she turns to me, adding with a wink, “I assume you’re happy to share your bed for a few more days, hm, John?”

A blush explodes across my face. I open my mouth to respond, but Sherlock beats me to the punch. 

“I slept on the sofa, as you are well aware from the stack of pillows and blankets,” he spits out, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face.

Sally smirks at him. “Well, that was last night. Set your sights higher tonight maybe?”

“I think it’s time you left, as well. Goodbye, Sally,” Sherlock says as he starts to herd her out of the flat. She grabs her handbag from the floor next to the coffee table as she passes, stumbling slightly and Sherlock only just lets her regain her balance before she’s pushed into the corridor and towards the front door.

“Bye, John, enjoy your houseguest, but do keep it down -- think of the neighbours!” She calls over her shoulder, voice dripping with innuendo, before the door is closed in her face. 

Sherlock doesn’t appear in the sitting room again immediately, probably hiding in the corridor, which I totally understand because I feel like hiding too. When he does re-enter the room, he looks strangely bashful, all gawky limbs and pink-stained cheeks.

“I feel I must apologise for my manager. She’s a truly heinous woman, who is, regretfully, very good at her job, otherwise I’d fire her for intentionally vexing me at every possible turn.”

I find myself trying to alleviate his worry. “It’s fine, Sherlock. I’ve put up with Harry for thirty years, remember? I know what it’s like.”

Sherlock huffs a small laugh. “True.”

Silence falls between us and I’m not sure what the next step forward is. Apparently, he’s staying with me for the next few days, so we’ve got to cope with being cooped up in my flat together. And with Sally’s parting words, there’s a renewed tension in the room about what exactly is going on between us. As a result, I’m feeling all too aware of my own thoughts, the expression on my face, what my limbs are doing, and my proximity to Sherlock. 

It's Sherlock who takes the next step and brings reality crashing back around us.

“John, will you allow me to explain?” He asks, softly. “You are understandably angry about Mycroft, but there were reasons for why things happened like they did, and I think you deserve to hear them.” 

With a sigh, I rub my tired eyes, realising then that I haven’t put on my glasses, and think about how to respond. If he’s going to be staying here, then I definitely want the full story of what the hell happened this summer, but I’m also not sure if I’m ready to hear it. I already know I’ll forgive him, which is immensely annoying, and I’m tempted to hold onto my irritation with him just a little bit longer. 

“Yes, all right, fine, but can we have breakfast first? A proper breakfast, not just those pastries that Sally brought.”

“Of course.” 

Sherlock follows me into the kitchen, where I begin pulling out eggs, bacon and bread and set about preparing a fry up. I task Sherlock with making a fresh cafetiere of coffee as the drinks Sally bought have gone cold, which he does with impressive precision and focus. We remain quiet as we work and the only sounds to be heard is the sizzle of the frying pan and the clatter of utensils and dishes being set down on the counter. 

When the food is ready, I serve it onto two mismatched plates and turn to set them on the table, only to find Sherlock once again in my chair. This seems to be becoming a pattern and instead of asking him to move, I just accept that I have a new chair and sit down across from him. We eat, focused on the food in front of us, occasionally taking a sip of coffee, and altogether avoiding eye contact. 

“This is quite good,” Sherlock says after a while, gesturing to the remaining egg and bacon on his plate.

“Mmhmm,” I mumble in both thanks and agreement, not quite ready for actual conversation. 

After we finish eating, Sherlock, who seems to be on his best behaviour, takes our plates to the sink and begins to do the washing up. Leaving him to it, I take my coffee cup into the sitting room and sit on the couch to fret about what comes next. 

Five minutes later he joins me, sitting at the far end of the sofa as if he thinks I need as much distance between us as possible. He opens his mouth to start to explain, I assume, but I cut him off.

“Sherlock, I have to work today, which means I have to be out the door by eight-thirty at the latest, so whatever you need to say will have to be quick.”

Sherlock nods and appears to rethink his approach. I wait for him to begin.

“There are three key pieces of information that will provide some context for my seemingly disrespectful and mercurial behaviour towards you previously. Things you couldn’t have known or I didn’t let you know while we were. . . together. . . before,” he says, looking up as though to gauge my reaction before continuing his explanation. I raise an eyebrow. He nods and takes a deep breath.

“First, my brother Mycroft is the most self-righteous, controlling person you’ll ever meet and I loathe him. However, he occupies a powerful position within the government and it has been an undeniably useful connection at certain points throughout my career. I was aware that he sent you those texts and appeared in your shop, and I am sorry to have added to your worry by letting you think it was a serious threat instead of telling you who he was, which leads me to my second point.

There were photographs of us together. Nothing too incriminating, like snogging on the street,” he pauses and meets my eye with a heated look that causes my stomach to drop and I lick my lips involuntarily, “But it was enough to imply something more than a platonic connection. They were taken at Angelo’s by a fan at another table who recognised me. As you know, I’m not out yet, which means the recklessness of my behaviour with you was a potential liability. Mycroft was able to stop the photos from being leaked, but it was a near miss.

Third, I haven’t been in a relationship in. . . well, ever, really. I’ve never been in a functioning, adult relationship, and although it pains me to admit it, I panicked. I let Mycroft talk me into preemptively abandoning it. Sally told me I was being a jackass.” Sherlock’s mouth pulls up into a self-deprecating half-smile and then looks me boldly in the eye, and says, “John, I missed you. Every day. And I’m sorry for mistreating you so badly.” 

With that, I am certain I am gaping at him in the most unattractive fashion, but I can’t help it. For months, I daydreamed about him saying words like this, hoping he’d recognise his error and try to win me back. But now that he’s here and it’s actually happening, it suddenly feels like too much -- the rooms seems warmer, my pulse ratchets up, and sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. 

There’s a war going on inside me - the rational versus the emotional, head versus heart. What I want to do is crawl across the sofa and be wrapped up in his arms. But I know I can’t do that, mainly because I need to go shower and get ready for work, but also because it’s too damn soon to be seriously contemplating starting up whatever this is again. And with all the gossip in the papers, it can’t be good timing for Sherlock -- his priority certainly should be his career.

He seems so young and hopeful sitting there in his -- my -- pyjamas, a riot of curls across his forehead, and the sight nearly breaks me, but I force myself to be reasonable. “Well, erm, that was. . . wow. Um, I still feel like there’s a lot we need to unpack from all of that, but I appreciate you telling me. And while I think I understand your perspective a bit better, it doesn't mean that I'm not still royally pissed off with you. And Mycroft.” Mainly Mycroft -- what kind of name is that anyway? 

“And it's obvious that there's a lot going on for you at the moment and a lot at stake in terms of your career, and I don't want to be a. . . liability.” The word sticks in my throat.

Sherlock blanches. “No, I didn't mean. . . John, it's not you who is the liability. It's me, my behaviour, my recklessness.”

“Sherlock, who told you were behaving recklessly?” Even though I already know, I ask anyway. 

“Mycroft,” he grumbles. 

“Bloody Mycroft, honestly.” I huff out a sigh and reign in the eyeroll that I'm tempted to execute. “Sherlock, you weren't being reckless, you were, well, dating. Yes, we were probably not as cautious as we should have been if you don't want to be out publicly, but you did nothing wrong. Please tell me you see that?”

He's looking down at his hands and offers only a shrug in response. It occurs to me then that perhaps he truly doesn't know what it's like to date -- he admitted that he's never been in a relationship before, and yet he'd seemed rather confident in his pursuit of me. A wave of sadness passes through me for all that he's possibly missed out on by keeping himself away from romantic entanglements, as he called them, all those months ago. 

“Listen, we can talk about that more later, if you want to, but for now, just know that you are welcome to stay here as long as you need, and I'm happy to help in whatever way I can with this whole issue in the news, which admittedly, probably won't be much. Okay?” 

Sherlock breathes out a long breath and a subtle shiver runs through him. After a second, his grey eyes lock on mine and he says with determination, “Yes, okay. I. . . thank you, John.”

With a reassuring smile, I stand up. “Right, I need to get ready now. You going to be okay staying here all day?”

He gives me a look that says _don’t patronise me_ and I laugh, putting my hands up. 

“Yeah, okay, sorry! I just don’t want you climbing the walls from boredom or anything!”

“I’ll just have to bother you all day, or snoop through your things. One or the other.” He shoots me a cheeky grin and then plucks his coffee cup from the table, looking far too pleased with himself as he brings it to his lips.

I do roll my eyes then. “Do not go through my stuff, Sherlock. Number one rule of crashing at someone else’s place.”

He just hums, so I leave him there on the sofa and rush through my morning routine, showering in record time, popping in my contact lenses, and pulling on clothes at random. But I do pause to glance in the mirror before exiting my bedroom, just to make sure I don’t look completely ridiculous.

Sherlock is standing in the corridor, watching me as I prepare to leave the flat. I try to ignore the weight of his gaze as I gather up my jacket and keys. Finally, I meet his eye and say, “Well, I’ll see you later, then. Um. . . text if you want me to pick anything up. I’ll be home about half-six.” It feels oddly like a daily routine -- Sherlock sending me off to work in the morning, discussing our plans for that evening. Stop it, Watson, you romantic git. 

“Goodbye, John,” he says, strangely solemn.

Those words sound too melancholy, too final. I turn back to him, hand propping open the door. “Sherlock, just so you know, I missed you, too.”

Before I leave the flat, I catch a glimpse of a smile on his face. The door clicks shut and I shuffle down the stairs, feeling lighter than I have all morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely ignoring the reality of film making, even independent, low-budget film making, in this fic. I realise that no way in hell would Sherlock be preparing for the release of _A Noble Bachelor_ mere months after filming, but I'm bending reality to fit my story. So there. ;)


	11. a literal leading man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A question, a decision and some regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo -- so sorry for the long time between chapters! We're nearing the end so I hope to get these final chapters out in a more timely fashion. As always, thank you so much for reading, commenting and cheering me on through this story -- I love your response to this fic so much!
> 
> And thanks to @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock for helping me get this raggedy chapter into some semblance of order! x

No matter what I do, I can’t avoid the news.

Sherlock’s name is splashed across the signs declaring the day’s headlines outside corner shops, each more vulgar than the last, some even attempting bad puns with his name. Janine and a colleague are gossiping about the story when I pop into Printworks for a coffee, half of their comments are criticism and the other half are fantasies of Sherlock being some dark, troubled soul looking to be saved. My phone buzzes with a news alert outlining the main details of Sherlock’s stint in rehab, like it’s international breaking news. Even Anderson brings it up -- 

“Crazy about Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?” he asks, mid-morning when we’re between customers. He’s flipping through a tattered copy of the Metro, where Sherlock’s face is, of course, splashed across the front page. 

I fight down the flood of anxiety his question prompts in my sympathetic nervous system and offer a distracted ‘hmm’ in response.

“Yeah, it’s all over the papers today. Rehab for drugs, rumored overdose too. And to think he was in your shop!” There’s a brief pause and I wonder if Anderson is going to drop it, but then he says, “I wonder what my autograph would be worth. . .”

Closing my eyes, I force myself to count backwards from twenty so I don’t do something foolish, like throttle him. 

I can’t avoid the gossip about him, but I desperately wish I could. Every time I see or hear Sherlock’s name, I itch with discomfort, like a low current of electricity vibrating across the surface of my skin. The news is everywhere.

At lunchtime, I give in to my curiosity and pull up the BBC News app on my phone to read their coverage. The tone of the article is so dismissive and impersonal, like Sherlock is just a commodity to be sold and discarded instead of a human being who should be valued, someone with flaws and insecurities, yes, but also strength and brilliance and hopes for the future. I make it halfway through the article before closing the app and slapping my phone down on the counter.

Sherlock and his manager may be used to having the details of his life discussed by the press in this manner, but it feels all a bit too much for me. And if this is how the BBC are reporting on it, then I can only imagine how awful the Daily Mail and their like are being to him. It’s invasive and cruel, yet seemingly commonplace for someone with the level of fame that Sherlock has. 

I don’t know how he puts up with it. I can’t imagine my life being continually disrupted by fans and paparazzi and journalists. The thought of having my personal life splashed across newspapers and websites to be discussed and judged by the faceless masses makes me cringe with discomfort and a small amount of fear. 

Worry over Sherlock’s situation continues to niggle at me for the rest of the day, seeping into my head so that as I go about my work, my attention is divided between the task at hand and the man currently hiding out in my flat. As we begin preparing to close up for the night, my phone pings with a text alert.

⟪Indian for dinner? SH⟫

It’s the first time I’ve heard from him all day. After his comments this morning, I expected him to be texting every ten minutes. Thinking about his prolonged silence makes me wonder if he did make good on his other threat of snooping through my things. I push that thought aside and reply to his message. 

⟪Sounds good to me. What do you want? I can pick it up on my way home.⟫

⟪I’ll order for delivery. You prefer lamb biryani, correct? SH⟫

I shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that he somehow knows my usual Indian order and yet I am. ⟪How did you guess that???⟫

⟪I never guess, John. SH⟫

This response makes me roll my eyes and huff out a laugh. 《Yeah, right. But yes, lamb biryani, please. And some saag paneer and garlic naan to share?⟫

⟪Acceptable. SH⟫

Sherlock is ridiculous.

I realise I’m smiling at my phone and quickly slip it into my pocket before Anderson notices anything unusual in my behaviour. I focus on tidying the shop and then, when the clock strikes six, flip the sign to ‘closed’ and lock the door. As I’m cashing out for the night, my phone buzzes again.

⟪Slight problem. I have no cash on me and I do not want to risk connecting my bank card to your address. SH⟫

And then, almost immediately, another incoming text alert buzzes. 

⟪Called Sally to sort out. Ignore previous message. Dinner should be here by the time you get home. SH⟫

I frown. Surely it’s not his manager’s responsibility to sort out our dinner? I fumble with my phone and tap out: ⟪I can collect it? Or grab cash on my way home for delivery?⟫

The response comes immediately. ⟪No, not necessary. SH⟫

Sherlock is ridiculous _and_ frustrating.

When I get home, the scent of curry tempts me up the stairs and my stomach rumbles in anticipation. Clearly Sherlock, or Sally, rather, had indeed sorted it out, although that still leaves me feeling uncomfortable. 

After pushing into my flat, I shuck my jacket and hang it up on its peg next to Sherlock's long coat. I follow my nose into the sitting room, where I find Sherlock lounging on the sofa in studied nonchalance. He’s wearing jeans and a dark green cashmere jumper. “New clothes?” I ask, taking in his outfit. 

“One of Mycroft’s minions brought some of my things around this afternoon. Apparently, pyjamas were not appropriate clothing in his eyes,” Sherlock says with a shrug and then gestures to the veritable feast spread across the coffee table. “Hungry?”

“Yes, starving. This looks amazing,” I say as I make my way around the Indian takeaway-laden coffee table to join him on the sofa. 

“It does appear very appetising,” Sherlock concurs with a judicious nod, and then continues, “I was highly tempted to devour it all, so you’re lucky I waited for you.”

I chuckle at that. “Quite rude to tell someone that there will be dinner waiting for them when they get home and then eat it all before they arrive!”

“Noted.” His tone is serious, but his eyes sparkle with good humour. 

My stomach rumbles again, which causes us both to laugh, and we dig in, heaping our plates full of food. Sherlock pours red wine for us both and we settle in to eat.

The food is delicious -- I haven’t ordered from this Indian takeaway in a long time and make a mental note to do so more often. After a few bites, because it still doesn’t sit right, I ask “So did Sally buy our dinner?”

Sherlock harrumphs. “No, I bought our dinner. Sally just ensured that the order wouldn’t be traced back to me.”

“Yes, but I could have picked it up. Surely sorting out our dinner is below her pay grade.”

“You got dinner last night.”

“Well, yes, that’s true, but seeing as I can go out without attracting attention, I just thought --”

Without looking at me, Sherlock says, “It’s not a big deal, John. A minor issue was dealt with and now we have food. Just eat.” He sounds increasingly irritated. What started out as light banter has descended into something more like an argument. 

Trying to restore the peace, I say, “Listen, Sherlock, I know it’s got to be frustrating being stuck here and not being able to just, you know, function as you normally do, but I don’t mind helping you out. Britannia Spice isn’t far from the shop, so it would have been a simple thing for me to collect it.”

“I wanted to buy you dinner,” Sherlock clips out, grip tightening around his fork.

Oh. I feel a flush creeping up the back of my neck. This isn’t about simply getting food for our next meal, this is Sherlock trying to. . . romance me again? The bite I’ve just taken of lamb biryani sticks in my throat, and coughing, I grab my wine to help it down. For some reason it catches me off guard. I wasn’t expecting this tonight, not with everything else going on. 

“Oh, that’s really. . . um, thank you,” I manage to say and then take another bite of my food, which is probably not the response Sherlock was hoping for, but I can’t figure out how to handle this. 

The rest of the meal is strained and we eat mostly in silence. 

With a full belly, I set my cutlery down on my plate and pick up my wine glass, settling back against the sofa in an attempt to relax. Which is difficult because I can feel Sherlock next to me radiating with barely suppressed tension. 

After a few moments, he seems to collect himself and he turns to face me, hitching his right leg up onto the sofa. “John, there is a question I would like to ask you.”

At his tone, my heart starts thumping erratically in my chest. “Yes?”

“The question. The question is. . .” he pauses for an uncharacteristically long time.

“What’s the question?” I prompt gently.

“Yes, the question is this: if this unpleasant revelation about my past wasn’t in the press, or perhaps more accurately, despite this unpleasant revelation about my past being in the press, and the fact that I behaved so badly before, I was wondering if you might let me see you a bit or a lot maybe, if perhaps you could. . . like me again?”

So this is really happening -- I’m playing host to a famous actor who is hiding out from the press due to some horrible headlines about his past and now he’s sitting on my sofa asking me if I’d like to date him again. I feel that same pull that I did last night, that desire to be wrapped up in his arms, but there’s a stronger need to protect myself. After witnessing the onslaught of gossip about him today, it’s hard to imagine how I would fit into his life and he into mine. 

I study his face as he waits for me to respond. The expression in his eyes is at once expectant and cautious, and I feel awful for having to dash his hopes. 

I take a deep breath before I begin and then say, “Look, I’m a fairly level-headed bloke, not often in and out of love, especially not with someone famous.” I chew on my bottom lip for a second, pausing to figure out my next words. I know it’s the right decision, but I also can’t believe I’m saying this to him. “I just don’t see how it would work, Sherlock, us being anything more than friends. I think I need to say no to your kind offer.”

His face is blank, like he’s purposefully shuttered his emotions from me. “Right, yes, of course.”

He turns then, shoulders facing forward. The distance between us feels like it’s growing despite both still being sat on the sofa, and I feel like I need to explain further.

“Sherlock, with you, I'm in real danger. It looks like a perfect situation -- but my relatively inexperienced heart would, I fear, not recover if I was, once again, cast aside, which I would absolutely expect to be. There are too many pictures of you everywhere, too many films. You'd go and I'd be. . . well, buggered, basically.”

Sherlock meets my eye for a moment, a glint of hardness there. “The fame thing isn't really real, you know.” 

“No, I know. I know that, and I am truly grateful that I’ve gotten to know a bit of the real you, and while you are so much more than your fame, the reality of your world still means it is very different from mine, Sherlock. I’m just an ordinary bloke, who works in a travel book shop, and at every turn today, I was confronted with the news about you. It just seems like too wide a divide to cross between your world and mine.” 

He jerks his head in an abrupt nod, long fingers playing absentmindedly with the denim of his jeans around his knee. 

“That being said, I do still like you, Sherlock, despite everything, and I'd like to be your friend, especially with all this going on in the press. Okay?” 

I wish he’d look at me, just so I could get a sense of what’s going on in his head, but he studiously avoids my eye. 

Finally, he says “okay” and then proceeds to start tidying up our meal. 

We move around each other, picking up takeaway containers and dirty dishes and carrying them through to the kitchen. I begin the washing up as Sherlock makes a couple trips back to the sitting room to collect our wine glasses and other bits and pieces before leaving the kitchen entirely. I hear him settle in the other room as my mind replays everything that's just happened over and over again. 

When I finish with the dishes, I shuffle back to the sitting room and lean against the doorframe. Sherlock is ensconced in the armchair with a book. He appears to be absorbed in his reading, not raising his head to acknowledge me, although he undoubtedly knows I'm standing here. I take it as a cue that he’d like to be alone.

“I think I’m going to head to bed early tonight,” I say, rubbing the fingers of my left hand together out of habit, a sign of anxiety, my therapist tells me.

He looks up then and gives me a tight smile. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock, and thank you for dinner.”

***

Saturday dawns, bright and crisp. The sitting room door is closed firmly as I go about my morning routine and does not open before I’m ready to leave the flat. With a sigh, I shut the front door and shuffle down the stairs and onto the pavement. The walk to work has lost a bit of its appeal today, despite the sunshine. 

Seeing as there are few customers and no Anderson to chat with today, I spend most of my morning sitting behind the counter, chin in hand, doodling on the back of a flyer advertising trips to Guernsey. While I’m sure it was the right decision, I can’t help thinking of my conversation with Sherlock last night and just how brave it was for him to ask me, to put himself out there, especially at a time when people are digging into his past mercilessly. The fact that he was willing to be so open seems unimaginable to me. Put in a similar situation, all my defenses would have been up, with no chance of anyone breaking through. 

But it isn’t good timing, for him especially, or for me. I’m pushing forty and the time for rushing into a fantasy relationship is well behind me. And a fantasy is surely what dating Sherlock Holmes would be -- how would it work, anyway? If he doesn’t want to be out, then would I remain a secret? It’s not like I want my private life made public, but the idea of being kept in the shadows doesn’t sit right with me either. Would I accompany him to industry events, hanging onto his arm like some kind of WAG? I can’t imagine that red carpets, screaming fans and hordes of photographers would ever feel like a comfortable situation to be in for me.

No, it’s best that we remain friends. Less messy that way. I can be there for him during this whole drama with the press, and then afterwards we can continue to see each other and chat but with no pressure for it to be anything more or to attempt to merge our worlds. It makes sense. 

But only if Sherlock is in agreement, which isn’t guarantee, considering things between us were strained last night and the sitting room door was a clear barrier this morning. This thought gives me pause -- what if he wasn’t even there? What if he left sometime during the night? A ripple of alarm zips down my spine. I’ve been thinking about this like it’s solely my decision, but as they say, it takes two to tango and there is every possibility that Sherlock may not want to be my friend after I turned him down. With dawning horror, I realise that I’ve placed him in the ‘friend zone’ like he was some soppy sidekick, when he is, in fact, a literal leading man, and assumed he’d passively accept whatever decision I made. . . Oh my god.

Thankfully, the bell over the door rings then to pull my out of my spiralling thoughts. I look up from my doodle of a bumblebee to see Greg and Molly entering the shop, hand in hand. 

“Oh, hello!” I say in surprise, setting my pencil down and standing up from the stool.

“Hey, Johnny,” Greg says as they approach the counter, reaching his free right hand out to me to shake.

Molly gives me a small wave. “Hi, John.”

“I didn’t expect to see you two today -- what brings you ‘round?”

Greg shrugs. “We happened to have the same day off so we’re just out for a walk, maybe grab some lunch. Thought we’d pop in to see you. How you been, mate?”

I can hear the question underlying his question -- _how are things with Sherlock?_ \-- but I choose to ignore it.

“Fine, yeah. Been a bit of a weird week, but, you know, I’m muddling through.” 

Had it just been the two of us, Greg might have let me get away with that reply, accepting that I don't want to discuss it. Molly is not having it, however. “Is Sherlock still staying with you?” she asks, head-on and unapologetic. Clearly Greg told her about our conversation at the pub on Thursday night.

I rub the back of my neck. “Erm, yes. He is.” 

They just stare at me for a few seconds, Greg looking like he’s desperately holding in a cheeky response and Molly waiting patiently for me to continue. When I don’t, she prompts me again.

“And how’s that going?” 

Where the hell do I begin? My life seems to have taken a very bizarre turn over the last few days. “It’s. . . going,” I mumble, more to my bumblebee doodle than to my friends. After a few seconds of avoidance, I find some tiny molecule of courage to look up and their faces -- twin expressions of what I read as pity and impatience -- cause the dam inside me to burst and it all just comes tumbling out. I explain about Sherlock turning up at the shop and taking him back to my flat. I share the main points of our conversation that first night, leaving out the more private details. I rant about bloody Mycroft and how Sherlock knew it was him sending me texts. (Greg clenches his jaw at this point but thankfully doesn’t say anything.) I blush through repeating Sally’s innuendo-laced appearance at my flat. Finally, I tell them about Sherlock’s proposition last night and my refusal.

By the time I’m done, my mouth is dry and I desperately wish I had a glass of water. Greg and Molly are both silent for a beat, causing my nerves to ratchet up. With a self-conscious squint, I glance up and say, “What do you think? Good move?”

After a moment, Molly finally says, “Well, as you said, you lead very different lives, so if you’re not comfortable with all that his fame entails, then yes, I’d say you made the right choice.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself and me at the same time.

“Greg?” I prompt. 

“I think you need to do what feels right to you.”

His tone causes my hackles to rise. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! Just that I think this needs to be your decision.”

“I get that, but you’re clearly not saying something, so let’s have it.”

Greg sighs. “Fine. Johnny, listen, since you met him, some really weird shit has been going on -- things that don’t normally happen to you, military experience aside. While I’m concerned about all that because I’m your friend and I care about you, I also know that I haven’t seen you so alive in all the time I’ve known you, even with Mary. And I know it’s scary to think about jumping into this with him, but there’s something there and. . . I don’t want you to miss out on being happy.”

“You think he could make me happy?” I hate how small my voice sounds.

“Don’t you?”

My heart stutters and I inhale sharply. Before I can answer his question, the bell above the door rings again and Harry swans in, a chaotic swirl of layers and scarves.

“Hello, my lovelies!” 

This suddenly feels coordinated - are Mike and Nicola going to turn up next? “What is this, some sort of support group ambush? Did you all text each other beforehand to plan an intervention?”

“Someone's grouchy - I just stopped by to give you this,” Harry says, waving an A4 envelope at me. “What'd I miss?” she asks, jumping up to sit on the counter. 

“John was just telling us about how he turned down Sherlock Holmes,” Greg says, raising an eyebrow at me.

“You complete wanker. You didn’t tell me you were in touch with him again!” Harry screeches, smacking me in the shoulder. “When did this happen?”

“Ow! He just turned up here on Thursday.” 

“Have you not heard the news?” Molly asks her, surprised. Harry is usually the first to know celebrity gossip.

“Oh, about him and rehab?” She flutters her hand dismissively. “He’s an actor -- that’s par for the course, isn’t it? Anyway, tell me more. Did he throw himself at you and beg for forgiveness?”

God, she’s annoying sometimes. “No, nothing remotely like that.”

“Well? Out with it, what happened?”

I sigh and decide to give her the abbreviated version. “He suddenly appeared at the door after I'd closed for the night, he asked if he could stay with me because the press were hounding him, so he’s been crashing at my flat for the last couple days. He explained a bit about what happened over the summer and then last night he bought me dinner and asked if I might consider liking him again.”

“And you said no,” she deadpans, unimpressed.

Her obvious disapproval makes me stubbornly defiant and I nod. “I said no. We don’t make any sense, Harry. He’s this brilliant, gorgeous celebrity and I’m, well, I’m just me.”

She glares at me. “Oh, fuck off, Johnny. Stop with this whole woe-is-me thing you’ve got going on. It’s not cute and it’s not fucking true. If Sherlock can see what a catch you are, and all of us can, too, then why can’t you?” She turns to Greg and Molly, “What did you guys tell him?”

“We were trying to be supportive of his decision. . .” Molly begins, but Greg cuts her off.

“I’m with you, Harry. I don’t want him to be scared to at least give it a go.” He turns to me and continues, “If it doesn’t work out, then we’ll deal with it, yeah? But you’ve been hiding yourself away in this shop for years, like some timid book mouse, Johnny, and then Sherlock arrived and it was like you’d reclaimed a bit of yourself. Maybe part of it was coming out, but I think a lot of it was just him. He makes you brighter and bolder, or something. You smile more with him. Just don’t run away from it before it even has the chance to become something real -- isn’t that just what Sherlock did before?”

After this speech, I feel the intensity of three sets of eyes staring at me, waiting. 

He’s right, I know he is. I have been scared -- not just of Sherlock and what we could have, but of life more generally over these past few years. It’s rather shocking to realise how easy it was to slide into a series of dull routines that kept me from enjoying other people’s company or venturing out to explore what the world has to offer. I don’t want to live that way anymore, and if I’m honest, I haven’t wanted to for a while now, but I've struggled to find my way out of my depression. The moments I’ve shared with Sherlock -- the thrill of him walking into my shop that first day, lending him my t-shirt and having him dry clean and return it to me, breaking into private gardens, bringing him to meet my friends, snogging in the street after dinner at Angelo’s, even him turning up at the shop after months apart -- all these moments are the bright spots across the last year of my life.

“Oh, sod a dog. I’ve made the wrong decision, haven’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAG is a very British term, which I only heard after I moved overseas. It’s an acronym for ‘wives and girlfriends’ of high-profile athletes, usually footballers.


	12. no more walls between us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his act together. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay - things got quite busy at work over the last couple weeks so I've had less time to write. I was cheesing while writing this chapter so I hope the wait is worth it! Thank you so much for reading along so far - only a couple more chapters to go and then we'll be at the end of this amazing journey! 
> 
> Thanks you as ever to @eternaljohnlock and @zigster-ao3 for their help in sorting my writing out! You guys are the best! x

By that evening, with my friends’ words rattling around in my head, I’ve worked myself into a state of nervous anticipation. Half my brain is concocting elaborate ways I can win Sherlock back and the other half is experiencing complete defensive shutdown, certain that Sherlock will have fled from my flat and will never speak to me again. So as I move through my routine for closing the shop (nearly an hour earlier than usual), I prepare for the best but fully expect the worst. 

After all the ups and downs we’ve experienced already, it feels like there is a lot riding on how I approach Sherlock tonight. He’s already put himself out there and been rejected (stupid, so stupid), so I feel like I need to do something that will express not only that I have changed my mind and wish to atone for spurning his advances last night, but also that my desire to be with him is genuine and resolute. 

This thought makes me stop walking abruptly on the pavement, a passing businessman grumbling under his breath as he’s forced to swerve around me. Obviously, with the help of my nosey friends, I realised that I had made a mistake in not letting Sherlock back into my life, but I’m suddenly struck by the intensity of my feelings for him. There is no question of casually dating him to see what it’s like to be with a celebrity or to have a brief glimpse of the excesses of a life of fame. No, I want something serious and, well, _permanent_ with Sherlock. And in order to ask that of him, I need to make a big gesture, something worthy of him. 

My journey home takes at least six times longer than usual because I detour to the Waitrose a few streets over to pick up things for dinner, instead of my usual stop at the Tesco Express. Feeling slightly out of place amongst the posh folk that typically patronise this shop, I wander through the aisles selecting ingredients to make a pea and mint risotto, spend far too long at the fishmonger counter trying to choose the best fillet to go with it, and then splurge on a bottle of white wine costing upwards of fifteen pounds, triple what I'd usually spend. If I’m going to make dinner in an attempt to win back the favour of Sherlock Holmes, then I need a bottle that is suitable for the occasion. I leave Waitrose after taking a big hit to my bank account, but if all goes according to plan, then it will have been worth it. 

Upon reaching my front door, I take a deep breath and try to push down the knot of anxiety that has formed in my stomach in the last ten minutes, born from a fear of Sherlock no longer being in my flat and to what extremes I would be willing to go in order to find him again. No, he’ll be there -- the power of positive thinking, Watson. With determination, I unlock the door, jog up the stairs and let myself into the flat, carrier bags full of groceries hitting my legs. 

The hall and the kitchen are dark, but a soft light emanates from the sitting room and I exhale in relief.

“Sherlock?” I call out, kicking the door closed behind me and walking swiftly into the room, needing to see him as soon as possible. 

Sherlock is once again curled up in my chair with a book in hand. “Hi,” he says, too tentatively. 

My heart clenches at the sight of him there, like he belongs even after what I said to him last night. I want this to be a reality -- Sherlock being here when I get in from work, sharing meals and watching crap telly in the evenings, sitting together while reading and not talking for hours, generally wanting Sherlock to feel at home in my home. 

Setting the groceries down on the coffee table, I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over the arm of the sofa. He’s watching me, hesitant and unsure, which results in my determination ebbing slightly. I shove my hands in my pockets and rub the toes of my right foot across the grain of the carpet.

On my walk home, I had planned what I was going to say to him, something sweepingly romantic to explain my change of heart, but all those words escape me at the moment, and for some reason what comes to mind is a quote from the Peanuts.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

Chewing the inside of my mouth, I pause for just a second, wondering briefly if I have the courage to do this, but the doubt flickers away as quickly as it arrived. 

“I falsed when I should have trued.” 

He looks at me in confusion, which is completely fair considering he probably doesn’t recognise random Peanuts references, and then he scrunches up his nose. “First of all, that was atrocious grammar. Second of all, I have no idea what you mean.”

“I lied.”

He finally truly meets my eye then, for the first time since I walked in the room. “You lied,” he says as though sounding the words out in order to make sense of them. “Care to elaborate?”

“Last night, I said one thing when I wanted another.” Scrubbing my hand over the back of my neck, I take a deep breath and say, “I needed to feel like I had some semblance of control over my life, although the decision that provided that sense of control was, well, the wrong one.”

Sherlock appears to be holding his breath.

“So atrocious grammar aside, it’s an accurate representation of the current state of affairs,” I continue, taking a step closer to the armchair with each word. “I falsed when I should have trued, and I’d like to retract my words from last night, if that’s possible.”

I’m standing in front of him now and he’s staring up at me, disbelief written all over his face.

“I, um -- that is. . . oh.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so inarticulate and it makes my heart feel light.

“And I want to be truthful now, if you’ll hear me out?”

He nods, not taking his eyes off me. 

“I am idiot, admittedly, and while this is usually a constant state of being for me, I did have a moment of clarity when I realised that I had made a terrible mistake turning you down last night because you, Sherlock Holmes, are a bloody marvel and I want nothing more than to kiss you again. If the offer still stands, that is.”

I feel like I’m flayed open and on display. Sherlock’s eyes track over my face, giving nothing away, and my heart is in my throat as I wait for him to respond. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says, finally, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile.

I nod. “I really am. Forgive me?”

“Possibly. But only if you follow through on that kiss.” Before I even realise what’s happening, he’s snaked out one of his long arms and closed his fingers around my wrist, tugging me down to him. 

With a laugh, I brace myself on the arms of the chair and look into his face, his absolutely, stunningly gorgeous face that I’ve missed so goddamn much. “You deserve to be kissed every day, and I’d very much like to put myself forward for the job.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkle as he smiles up at me. “You’re hired,” he says with a laugh and then we’re kissing again after so long, and it feels so bloody right, despite the awkwardness of my position, leaning over Sherlock like I am. I’d suggest moving elsewhere, but his mouth is far too tempting to pull away. Sherlock’s hands drift from my arms to my ribs down to my waist and the back of my legs and I suddenly find myself unceremoniously pulled onto his lap, knees wedged tightly between his hips and the chair, and I let out an ‘oomph’ of surprise. 

“Better,” Sherlock murmurs against my mouth once we’ve gotten situated again. 

“Much,” I say, agreeing with his assessment. Not only do I no longer need to support myself in this position, I also have greater access to touch him. As our kiss deepens, I find that I’m unable to stop my hands from roaming, desperately needing to map every inch of him, which is made difficult when Sherlock’s arms wrap tightly around my back, pulling us as close together as possible in our cramped position. 

Sherlock is relentless, his mouth hot and hungry against mine. Warmth pools at the base of my spine and I’m dimly aware of my hips grinding down, desperate for some friction. This could all be over very quickly if we continue in this manner -- I’d really have no hope in drawing it out. I feel him tugging my shirt from where it’s tucked into my trousers and when his hands make contact with the bare skin of my back, I gasp into Sherlock’s mouth and pull away, breathing hard. “Wait, wait, wait!” 

Sherlock freezes under me, a look of wariness flitting across his features.

“I bought things for dinner,” I try to explain.

He quirks an eyebrow at me, still looking uncertain. Well-snogged but uncertain. “What?”

“It’s just that I stopped for ingredients on my way home because I wanted to make you dinner, assuming things went well, of course.” Slightly embarrassed, I watch my hands as they continue their wandering across his shoulders, fingers dragging up the sides of his neck and then down the centre of his chest. “And if we don’t get up right now, I fear that I will never move from your lap ever again, and I really do want to make you dinner. As an apology and a promise. To be better. Moving forward.”

“Not hungry. Let’s stay here,” Sherlock says petulantly, attacking my neck with those luscious lips of his. A giggle burbles up from inside of me and I try to push away, but he tightens his arms around me. 

“Honestly, John, is food your top priority right now?”

“Food is important!”

He scoffs. “Boring. Kiss me again.”

I can’t resist that request. 

Eventually, after it’s gone completely dark outside, I extricate myself from the limpet-like grip he has on me and declare that it’s time for dinner. As expected, he whines and attempts to persuade me back to the chair, but after that fails, he levers himself out of the chair and follows along behind me as I pluck the shopping bag from the table and walk into the kitchen, shoulders squared with purpose. 

I set Sherlock the task of dicing an onion as I pull out a saucepan and add a dash of olive oil, instructing Sherlock to toss in the diced onion to saute, and then move to preheat the oven and retrieve a baking tray for the salmon. 

Once all the ingredients have been added to the pot, I start to regret my choice for our meal. Sherlock has plastered himself to my back, hands stroking my sides and kissing my neck. It’s absolute torture to be stuck stirring the damn risotto while he is so temptingly close. I’d much rather turn around in his arms and ignore the task of stirring altogether, but that would only result in an inedible, and most likely burnt, attempt at dinner and I do really want this to be a success. 

Sherlock is making it nearly impossible though. 

“Sherlock, go pour some wine,” I command in my best Captain Watson voice, trying to pull myself together. 

He sighs dramatically and I can practically hear the eye roll that is most certainly executed in response to my order. Sherlock’s fingers tighten on my hips and then he slowly drags his nose up the back of my neck and places a messy kiss into the hair at my nape. Jesus Christ. I shiver visibly and Sherlock says, “fine,” a note of smugness in his voice. 

After locating the wine and pouring two glasses, he leans against the counter and just watches as I finish cooking the risotto. I’m hyper aware of his eyes on me and the attention makes my entire body feel hot. Somehow, I manage to plate the risotto and salmon and we sit down at the table to eat. 

We don’t say much during the meal, instead it’s accompanied by flirtatious glances, nervous giggles, and a need to constantly touch each other. Sherlock’s feet find mine under the table and I place my right hand on the table, palm up, inviting, and our fingers tangle together. Each touch teasing and tantalising. I eat my food without even really tasting it, too focused on the man across from me. I feel positively giddy, like a teenager on a first date, instead of the thirty-something divorced man I am. Sherlock seems just as affected, though, so I don’t feel quite so bad about my inability to play it cool. 

Once our plates are empty, I start to tidy up out of habit, taking them over to the sink to soak. 

“John, leave the dishes and come here.” Sherlock’s voice positively rumbles with desire and I grip the edge of the counter to take a deep breath before turning back to face him. He’s standing now, next to the table, and looks better than any dessert I’ve ever seen. I’m drawn to him like a magnet. 

He raises a hand to cup my face and drags a thumb across my bottom lip. “So. We ate our dinner like the good little boys we are, and it was delicious.”

“Was it? I didn’t notice.”

Sherlock grins down at me. “Distracted?” 

“Very.” And I am. His lips are exactly in my sightline and I can’t stop watching the way they move when he forms each syllable, and my own tongue darts out reflexively to trace the path of his thumb across my bottom lip.

“Am I allowed to kiss you again?”

“Mmhmm -- Oh, wait, I got something for dessert!” I pull away, throwing Sherlock a cheeky grin as I rummage through the bag on the counter and pull out a packet of Hobnobs. “For old times’ sake?”

Sherlock takes the proffered package of biscuits, studies them for a moment, and then looks at me, eyes glinting with mischief. “Can ‘Hobnob’ be a euphemism this time?”

A jolt of lust reverberates down my spine. “Oh, God, yes.”

Any restraint I had vanishes at the look on Sherlock’s face and I grab him by the back of his neck to pull his mouth down to mine, chasing his tongue and sucking at his bottom lip. I can feel his moan down to my toes, my knees going a bit week as a result. We seem to make the decision to seek out a soft surface at the same time, manoeuvring inelegantly through the kitchen door and down the hall to my bedroom.

The Hobnobs lay abandoned on the kitchen table. 

***

I wake up slowly, knowing it’s still early and wanting to revel in the last few minutes of slumber before I need to face the day. I allow myself to drift, chasing the pleasant tendrils of a dream. I remember feelings of contentment and joy, but the details are elusive now. The more I try to recapture it, the farther the dream escapes into the distant recesses of my mind as I find myself coming back to myself, awareness seeping in at the edges. 

Suddenly, the weight on my chest shifts and my eyes snap open and I’m greeted by the butterflies-in-the-tummy and still unbelievable sight of a head of dark curls resting on my chest. Sherlock is asleep, deep breaths hot on my skin, and I gape at him in wonder. He’s here and he’s mine.

I take moment to just grin like a lunatic at the fact that the universe has conspired to make this happen -- somehow, despite the low probability of me crossing paths with someone like Sherlock, it happened. And now, we’re at the point where we are waking up wrapped around each other, no more walls between us, physical or emotional, and it feels bloody wonderful. 

While my brain is buzzing along in a state of simultaneous contentment and excitement, Sherlock sleeps on, every once in a while snuffling adorably in his sleep. He’s sprawled on his stomach, one leg thrown over mine, left arm draped across me and his long fingers curled around my right bicep where it rests against the duvet. Every inch of him is gloriously naked and my fingers itch to explore the soft expanses of skin again, our exploits of last night already feeling long ago. I trail my left hand across his shoulder, over the planes of his back, dipping into the dimples at the bottom of his spine, and then retrace the journey back up until my fingers are buried his tangled nest of curls.

Sherlock’s hand tightens briefly on my arm and he turns his head to nuzzle into my chest, coming slowly awake. 

“Good morning,” I say, pressing a kiss into his hair.

He grumbles in response, pulling the duvet up over his shoulder and snuggling around me even tighter, causing me to laugh.

“Not a morning person, then?” I ask, because I know my perkiness will annoy him. I can’t sleep anymore, there’s too much energy thrumming through my body. After two orgasms and a night spent cuddling Sherlock, this is by far the best morning I’ve had in a damn long time and I plan to enjoy every second.

Sherlock shakes his head and says, “No talking.” His voice is rough and even deeper than usual. 

The clock on my bedside table reads eight-thirty so there really isn’t a need to get up any time soon. No shop to open today and Sherlock is still on lockdown so we can spend all day in this bed as far as I’m concerned. I go back to lightly tracing patterns onto his back and minutes blur together as we luxuriate in the presence of each other’s company. 

Sherlock snoozes. I daydream.

After god knows how long, I’m startled out of my thoughts by Sherlock’s voice, now clear so he must have woken up awhile ago.

“A comic book.”

My heart thuds in my chest at those words -- I’m certain Sherlock can hear it where his ear presses against me -- and just like that my happy little bubble pops. He obviously didn’t heed my warning not to snoop. Irritation ripples through me as I imagine him poking around through every drawer and cupboard in the flat, pulling out the pieces of my life and inspecting them at all angles, judging.

“You went through my things?” I state, an edge to the words.

Sherlock just sighs and shifts up so he’s resting his chin on his hand and looks me the eye for the first time this morning. “I am a curious and unrelenting person, with little consideration for social niceties, and I’ve been trapped in your flat for three days, bored and antagonised by the press. In these circumstances, it would surprise no one if I was to seek any source of entertainment, no matter how small -- and John, you are the most interesting subject matter I could possibly imagine. However, I did not go through your things as you are imagining. . . well, with the exception of your bookshelves, but those are openly displayed so I assumed they were up for perusal. While we made dinner last night, I noticed an envelope amongst the things you brought in and it was opened to reveal a sliver of drawings, which I recognised as panels of a comic. The envelope was the same style as the one Harry gave you after her birthday dinner, which led me to assume this was an ongoing project you are working on together. I didn’t remove the drawings from the envelope to read them, but I must admit that it was a close thing because I am desperate to find out every little thing about you, but I didn’t want to overstep.” 

My breath catches. “Oh!” I whisper, wonder seeping back in.

He shifts against me, a look of apprehension flickering across his features. “John, I know I’ve made a mess of things previously, but I do hope you can trust me again.”

God. The shift from imperious to uncertain happens so suddenly, I can feel a lump forming in my throat. Sherlock is simultaneously a powerful force of nature and the most fragile vessel of pure emotion. 

“Oh, Sherlock.” I trace my thumb over his brow and then pull his face to mine, pressing a firm, brief kiss to his lips. “I do trust you, I do.”

“Good,” Sherlock says roughly, clearing his throat. “That’s. . . good.”

We stare at each other for a long moment and I find myself lost in the unfathomable grey depths of his eyes. Sherlock smiles then and his eyes light up and sparkle; the change is remarkable to observe from so close a vantage point. He kisses me once more and then settles back into the covers again. 

“Will you tell me about it?” he asks softly, one large hand splayed protectively over the centre of my chest.

I’m strangely nervous at the prospect of sharing this project with someone who isn’t Harry, and even we don’t talk about it really, just some professional comments exchanged about content and design. She’s been kind enough not to remark on the extremely personal nature of some of the storyline. I feel like no matter how I present it to Sherlock, he’ll just know, somehow intuiting the truth of my trauma from what my face is doing or what I’m not saying. The intensity of Sherlock’s deductions makes opening up about the comic book that much more daunting. But as we just established, I do trust him to be gentle with this.

“It started as an assignment from my therapist,” I begin, my arms tightening around him fractionally as the words tumble out. Sherlock gives me an answering squeeze, but stays silent, so I continue, “Unsurprisingly, I was absolute rubbish at talking about what happened while I was deployed and it took Ella, that’s my therapist, months to get anywhere with me. Eventually, after yet another frustrating session, she suggested I distance myself from my memories and feelings and translate them into a story, with a main character who wasn’t me taking on my experiences, to see if it made it easier for me to address them.”

Sherlock hums. “You’ve been working on it consistently so it must have been successful to some degree. Why a comic book?” 

“Well, I wasn’t going to write a novel -- not enough patience for that, but I’ve always loved comic books and I thought I would be able to tackle that format. It was something that was accessible enough to grab my attention and allowed for enough freedom to make it work for me. And, after awhile, I got a little buzz at the thought of creating something like all my favourite comics from childhood.” I shrug, slightly embarrassed by the admission.

“Understandable,” Sherlock says and I can feel him thinking as he rests against me. “So how does it work, you write and Harry illustrates?”

“What, you don’t think I can draw?” I ask, mock affronted.

He snorts. “I’ve seen your handwriting, John. There’s no way that translates into drawing skills.”

I laugh at that. “Fine, you’re right. I was pants at art in school. Harry’s always been brilliant at it though -- her drawings always wound up on display on the refrigerator and mine were relegated to a pile on the counter. And I’d stayed with Harry for a bit when I came back and she knew what it was like for me, so it was just a natural step to collaborate. We’ve been working on it for a couple years now.”

“I imagine that the Watsons are even more of a force to be reckoned with when you combine your talents.” 

His complimentary words make me feel warm and I grin. “It is pretty amazing, I must admit.” 

“Of course it is, John.”

He wants to read it, I know he does, but he’s restraining himself admirably, not wanting to pressure me. I find that the idea of showing it to him doesn’t make me as anxious as I thought it might, so I make the offer so he doesn’t combust. “Do you want to read it?”

His head snaps up so quickly and his eyes flash with intensity. “Yes.”

I give him a gentle push. “Shove off then and I’ll get it.” He rolls off of me and I find myself missing the contact immediately, but I shuffle to the edge of the mattress, suddenly remembering that I’m completely nude. As I glance around the floor for my pants, Sherlock presses a hand against my hip and I nearly collapse back against him, but I spy the navy boxer-briefs near the foot of the bed and bend to retrieve them, pulling them on quickly. “Tea?” I ask as I stand, minimally clothed, and stretch. 

Sherlock mimics me, long limbs stretching cat-like across the sheets. “Yes, please.”

With a nod, I bustle into the kitchen to prepare two cups of tea. As they steep, I pick up the envelope Harry passed over to me yesterday and pull out the pages. In my excitement (and dread) to get back to the flat, I hadn’t even opened it to look at her most recent work. I pull out the drawings now and read them through quickly. We’re nearing the end of the volume and it’s thrilling to see it come together fully. I tuck them back into the envelope to finish preparing the tea -- sugar in one, milk in both -- and then, tucking the envelope under my arm, I pick up the cups of tea and walk carefully back to the bedroom.

Sherlock is starfished across the bed on his stomach, arms tucked up under the pillow, duvet bunched around his waist. He looks gloriously warm and sleep-rumpled and I’m overwhelmed by the magnitude of the feelings swirling around in my chest. I just want to stay in this little cocoon of ours forever and ignore the world outside. I don’t get to observe him for long because he’s heard my approach and peels his eyes open. Sluggishly, he props himself against the headboard, settling the duvet around him, and reaches out for the cup of tea I’m holding out.

I set my cup on the bedside table and crouch down to open the cupboard, fishing out the folder that contains the rest of the comic book, Sherlock watching me intently the entire time. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I set about organising the new pages with the rest. Pages and pages of my words and Harry’s drawings, depicting moments of fear, triumph and loss, nearly the entirety of my story. I tap the stack against my thigh to get the pages aligned and then just hold the entire work in my hands, the momentousness of this occasion not lost on me. This is the first time this comic will be read by someone other than its creators and that realisation leaves me feeling a bit breathless, like the deep chasm in my soul caused by my experiences in the Army, which I’ve attempted to fill and patch as best I can, is reopened a bit. I’m not having second thoughts about sharing the comic with Sherlock, but I do feel like it requires a certain level of recognition. Out of anyone who I might have shared this with, I’m so glad it’s him. 

Looking up at Sherlock solemnly, I hold it out to him. He sets his teacup on the table and instead of reaching for the comic book, his large hands settle on either side of my face and he reels me in, kissing me fiercely. His lips and the touch of his fingertips saying more than any words could possibly do. He pulls away minutely and presses his forehead to mine, waiting, as I catch my breath. 

“Thank you,” he says, kissing me once more before taking the comic book gently from my hands and sitting back against the headboard. My left hand drifts to my just-kissed mouth as I watch him study the first page. He glances up, eyes soft with understanding, the he winks and turns his attention back the comic. I realise I can’t sit there while he reads -- it’d be far too anxiety-inducing, so I grab my tea and mumble an excuse about making breakfast so I can flee to the kitchen.

I spend the next half an hour focused on making a potato fry up with sausage, tomato and spinach, while my nerves dance the conga in my stomach. I can’t decide if I’d rather race down the hall and demand to know what Sherlock thinks or pretend it’s not happening at all and never ask him for his assessment. 

Once it’s done and after the coffee has brewed in the cafetiere, I compile a tray with our breakfast things and bring it through to the sitting room, placing it on the coffee table. Then I steel myself to return to the bedroom to receive Sherlock's review of my comic. 

I stop in the doorway, reluctant to enter fully. The comic book is resting on Sherlock's lap and he's reclining against the headboard, eyes closed with hands steepled below his chin. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and watch him for a second, enjoying the opportunity to observe a Sherlock at rest, all long lines and smooth skin. 

“Breakfast is ready,” I say, disrupting the quiet.

“Yes, in a moment. John, why are you hovering? Come over here where I can reach you.” 

I huff out a laugh and go to perch on the edge of the bed, facing him. Despite feeling flayed open before him, my lips still twist into a smile when I look up into his face. 

“Although it may surprise you to find out that I am not, in fact, an expert in all fields, I am not well versed in comics.” He says, quirking a brow in a hint of humour despite the earnestness in his eyes as he proceeds with his comment on my work. “However, regardless of my lack of familiarity with this medium, I think this --” he places his hand on the comic “-- is remarkable.”

It's a sincere compliment and I suspect those are hard to earn from Sherlock, so I suddenly feel like I've been knocked off balance. His hand finds mine and squeezes my fingers.

There's so much to say, but I can't even begin to find the words. Finally, I manage to say, “Oh. Thank you.” 

And then we're interrupted by a knock sounding on the door.

“Who’s that?” I ask Sherlock, wondering if he was expecting anyone to pop over this morning. 

“Someone horrible, I assume” Sherlock grumbles. 

He’s still naked and burrowed under the duvet, so that leaves answering the door up to me. I fish out a striped, long sleeve t-shirt from my dresser, pulling it on as I go to open to the door. 

On the other side stands Sally, as alert and well put together as ever. 

“I’m early, but I come bearing coffee,” she says and once again pushing passed me into the sitting room. I sigh -- so much for our day in bed.

“Sherlock,” I call down the hall, “it’s Sally.”

“I told you it was someone horrible,” he responds, his voice carrying clearly from the bedroom, and Sally smirks like the cat who got the cream. My cheeks burn.

“Erm. . .” I’m not sure what to say as I stand in my pants, holding the takeaway coffees. I wish Sherlock would hurry up and get out here to deal with her so I can get dressed properly. When he does emerge, he’s simply wrapped in the bedsheet, which does not help the situation in the slightest.

Sally cackles with delight. “Well done, boys. It’s about damn time!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If this story was a film, Ronan Keating’s song ‘When You Say Nothing At All’ would be playing over the scenes of John marvelling over the fact that he gets to wake up with Sherlock in his arms. Go have a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AuJrEBtmM1Q
> 
> \- There are a number of moments I wanted to explore in more detail (including what Sherlock and John got up to that night), but I just didn’t have room to do it in this chapter. I may write a few one-shots that take place in this universe after the fic is complete. We shall see. 
> 
> \- And bonus points to anyone who can tell me the name of the song that inspired one line in this chapter. :D


	13. starting to believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock experience a new domestic bliss and Sherlock has to face the press/public about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh! Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry for the long time between updates! My family came to visit from overseas and then I got ill so this chapter took a lot longer than I thought it would. But it's here now, so I hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading along so far and for your comments. Only two more chapters to go! *gasp*
> 
> As always, thanks to @eternaljohnlock and @zigster-ao3 for helping me get this ready to post! x

Back in Year 5, a man named Mr. Gunnard came round to our school once a week to teach my class how to play chess. He’d set out fifteen boards and we’d pair up around them, equally ignorant at the start and then, week by week, we generally got better and better. There were a certain few who took to it, devouring books on strategy in the playground and staying behind to ask Mr. Gunnard questions after the lesson was over. I was not one of those pupils -- I was rubbish at chess, absolutely awful. Mainly because I was forced to sit quietly and contemplate the board in front of me for endless stretches when I’d rather be in PE or doing free reading. 

Watching Sally and Sherlock plan their approach for handling the news about Sherlock’s past visit to rehab reminds me of a chess game. Sherlock is seated on the sofa and Sally is lined up opposite him, perched on one of the chairs from the kitchen. There is collection of newspapers from the last three days littering the table; they are covered in markings and post-it notes where Sally has tracked the shifts in coverage since the story broke. She’s also printed off a draft statement for Sherlock to review as well as a long-term strategy for handling questions in his upcoming interviews. They’re squabbling about them at the moment. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock has opinions and Sally is rapidly making changes to the documents on her tablet, nodding in agreement with some of Sherlock’s demands and putting her foot down about others.

While all this is going on, I perch at the other end of the sofa, now fully clothed after having thrown on some jeans and socks, listening to them strategise. I’d offered to make myself scarce earlier by either reading in the bedroom or leaving the flat altogether, but Sherlock had just scoffed and said “Eat your breakfast, John” -- the put-on abrasiveness tempered by a soft hand on my elbow. So that’s what I’d done. Sherlock had on two occasions asked my opinion, mostly to prove Sally wrong about something, but otherwise I’d been rather superfluous to the ongoing negotiations. 

It’s now past midday and they’re still at it. I’m starting to go a bit stir crazy. 

I pause in my reading, mark my place, and wiggle my toes where they’re wedged under Sherlock’s thigh (who is still only covered in the bedsheet -- Sally seems used to this behaviour, but to me it’s just distracting), which prompts him to shift the papers in his hands and grasp my ankle lightly, all while continuing to dictate a revision to Sally about one of the documents. 

When he’s done, he glances up at me. “Are you all right?”

Sally stops tapping on the screen of her tablet at looks up at me, as if suddenly remembering that I was there.

“I think I need to get some fresh air,” I respond, swinging my feet down to the floor and set my book on the only bit of unoccupied territory on the coffee table. “Okay if I go for a walk? I can pick up lunch on my way back.”

Sherlock huffs a bit. “You’re always thinking about food.” 

“Food is important!” I say, repeating my words from last night. Sherlock’s eyes meet mine and we share the memory, a grin spreading across my face. 

Sally pipes up, missing the significance of my reply, “He’s right. You never eat enough, Sherlock.”

“Yes, thank you, Sally,” Sherlock retorts, and then turns back to me. “Thai?”

“Thai sounds good to me. I’ll see what I can find.” It’s a Sunday and still fairly early, so I’m not sure what will be open. I stand up, but I am prevented from moving by Sherlock’s fingers looping around my wrist. 

“Wait, come here.” 

I’m acutely aware of Sally watching us, but I allow myself to be reeled in for a kiss. The fact that we do this now is still unbelievable to me. The kiss starts off chaste enough, but then Sherlock begins licking at my lips, bordering on indecent, which is most definitely just to mess with Sally, and I break away from him, laughing. 

“Sherlock,” I say, with all the sternness I can muster, which isn’t much at all. In response, he adopts a completely insincere look of innocence and my heart flips that this ridiculous man is mine. 

“You two are disgusting. Honestly, I think my teeth just rotted in my skull from how over the top sweet you are.” Sally’s arms are crossed and she’s shaking her head, but her expression reads fond.

“Don’t tell anyone -- wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation as most hated man in Hollywood.”

Sally snorts. “Don’t give yourself too much credit. I think Harvey Weinstein still holds that title.”

Sherlock grimaces and replies, “True. Let’s hope I never reach his level of horrible.”

“Anyone who doesn’t realise how amazing you are is a right idiot,” I add, pecking him on the cheek, and then disentangle myself from him. Once free of his grasping fingers, I go off in search of my shoes and coat, patting my pockets to make sure I have my phone and wallet. 

“Right, I’m off,” I say, pausing by the doorway. “If you have any other requests while I’m out, just give us a text.”

Sherlock and Sally both look up from their plotting to say goodbye -- Sally with a brief nod before returning to her tablet and Sherlock with a wink and a lingering smile. I grin back, giddy from the cocktail of heart-eyes, lust, and endorphins I’ve been having over the last twenty-four hours. Finally, I force myself to turn away and leave the flat.

I set off towards Hyde Park with the idea of ambling along the paths that criss-cross through gardens behind Kensington Palace. As I walk, I scan through the text messages that arrived that morning -- one from Harry (⟪Updates pls!⟫) and another from Greg (⟪Thinking about you, mate. Hope it went well with Sherlock last night. Phone if you need to.⟫) I ignore Harry’s message for the time being; she and her gossipy ways can be the last to know. I text Greg instead.

⟪Last night was brilliant, better than expected, really. I’m out for a walk at the moment… Want to meet for a coffee? Nero on Notting Hill Gate?⟫

I wander for a few minutes until my phone alerts me to his response.

⟪Be there in 15⟫

I get to Caffe Nero before Greg, loitering awkwardly in the entryway waiting for him to arrive. The cafe is relatively quiet, it being a Sunday afternoon and all. There are only a couple tables occupied -- having a choice of tables is a rare thing in London coffee shops. The baristas are leaning casually on the counter, chatting in between customers and I watch a mum trying to contain the mess as her toddler destroys a biscuit on the table.

After a while, Greg saunters in and gives me a hug. “Hey, Johnny,” he says in greeting, his tone knowing and playful. Despite his smile and clear support for my relationship with Sherlock, my stereotypical British embarrassment about this sort of thing kicks in and I feel myself blushing. It’s like every soppy thought and emotion is clearly displayed on my face -- I might as well have a flashing neon billboard above my head that says: _I am smitten with Sherlock Holmes_. 

After he releases me, I clear my throat and manage to respond relatively normally, “Hi, Greg, good to see you.” 

“I know -- it’s been a whole 24 hours!”

I chuckle at that. “Yeah, well, it feels like a lot has happened in that time.”

“I bet it does,” he says, waggling his eyebrows at me. “Let’s get a coffee and you can tell me all about it. . . Well, some of it. Maybe keep the more risqué details to yourself.” Greg claps me on the shoulder and steers me to the counter, loudly proclaiming to the barista, “Whatever he wants, it’s on me!”

After collecting my cappuccino from the end of the bar, cheeks flushed red from Greg’s stream of not-so-subtle innuendo and pointed looks, I lead the way out of the shop so that the baristas and customers aren’t within earshot anymore. Once we cross over into the park, foot traffic lessens and we’re able to walk and talk easily without being overheard.

“So?” Greg prompts, sipping on his black coffee. “Tell me everything.”

“You’re not usually such a gossip.”

Greg shrugs. “It’s not gossip though, is it -- it’s your life.”

This simple sentence causes my breath to catch. Greg sometimes has the ability to make me stop and reassess my cynical outlook of life. Where I tend to brush things off with sarcasm, he strikes right to the heart of the matter, resulting in a gentle reminder of what’s actually important in life. There are times when I envy his pragmatic optimism, but today I’m just so grateful for the fact that I can count him as my friend, that he’s here walking through Hyde Park with me full of support and good-natured humour while asking about my relationship with Sherlock. 

I cough through my emotional discomfort and manage to say ‘thanks’ before taking a stress sip of my cappuccino. Greg raises an eyebrow and gives me a nudge with his elbow.

With a final deep breath for courage, I begin the story. “Well, after I spent the rest of the afternoon panicking that he would have left and I’d have never seen him again, I got home and he was curled up in my armchair, and I was mostly just relieved to still find him at my flat.”

“Kind of deserved though, that panic, mate. You did turn the poor bloke down.”

“We’ve already established that I was an idiot, Greg. Anyway, he was there and I’d planned this big speech in my head while I was buying things for dinner and when I saw him there, all of those words just left my head and I just winged it.”

“Well, whatever you said clearly was effective.”

“I think I quoted Linus.”

Greg chokes on a poorly-timed sip of coffee and sputters out a laugh. “You did what?”

“My carefully crafted speech deserted me in my time of need and what was left was a line from the Peanuts. Not that I ever expected to be smooth in my attempt to win back someone like Sherlock, but it was incredibly random even for my low expectations. It was relevant, at least,” I say with a shrug. “And then. . . and then we kissed. A lot. So much that I nearly never got around to cooking, but eventually I did, and after what I’m sure was a delicious dinner -- don’t really remember or care -- we ended up in my bed. Do you want me to continue or just let your imagination take it from there?”

“Erm, no. Think I’m okay,” he says and then pauses, looking awkward but determined. “Unless you need to talk about it?” 

I laugh. “Nope.”

“Oh, thank Christ. There are some things I don’t need to know. Just as long as you’re happy, it’s all good with me.”

“Despite a lingering feeling of disbelief, I think I am happy really. I know it’s been a bit of a rollercoaster, but it seems like we’re finally on the same page about everything. And he’s so bloody beautiful, Greg. I know you don’t want to hear the details, but you have to admit he’s beautiful. Beautiful and mine. What the hell?”

“You deserve it, Johnny. You might not have always believed that, but you do.” Greg smiles, his face showing his genuine happiness for me. Once again, Greg’s unfailing friendship rattles me and I can’t speak for a moment. I nudge his elbow gently with mine so he knows I’m grateful and we continue on in silence for awhile. 

The paths of Kensington Gardens veering off in different directions are scattered with wet leaves and grey clouds hang in the sky, but even their threat of rain can’t dampen my spirits today. I feel lighter than I have in a long time, as if opening up to one person has lifted a weight from my shoulders. It makes me think I should be more truthful with the other people in my life.

“I’m writing a comic book,” I say, breaking the silence but keeping my eyes on the path in front of me. “About Afghanistan. Well, inspired by my experiences there.”

“Yeah?”

“My therapist suggested writing as a creative outlet for exploring. . . stuff, and I showed a few pages to Harry and it just sort of grew from there. She’s illustrating it now.”

“Ah! I always wondered what it was -- she mentioned once that she was working on a project with you but wouldn’t say any more. How’s that going? The idea of you two collaborating is hard to imagine.”

“We don’t really discuss it -- it’s mostly just notes passed back and forth. She’s been surprisingly supportive with the whole thing, which is unexpected because, well, you know Harry.”

Greg chuckles at that. “Yes, she is very, um, ‘Harry’, but she also loves you. I can see her taking it really seriously, despite being the least serious person I’ve ever met.”

I hum in acknowledgement, toss my empty coffee cup in a bin along the path, and shove my hands in my pockets to protect them from the chill. We keep walking and I kick at some leaves stuck to the pavement. “I showed it to Sherlock this morning,” I say, finally, glancing at Greg out of the corner of my eye. Part of me worries that he’ll be hurt that I didn’t show him first. After all, I never speak about my Army days with him, but now I’m showing my story to someone I’ve only known a few months. 

He interrupts my worried tumult of thoughts. “I’m glad.”

“What?”

Greg stops walking and turns to me, an exasperated yet fond look on his face. “I am glad that you found someone you feel comfortable sharing that part of yourself with. I know it’s hard for you to talk about your time in the Army and I never wanted to press you about it, but it always seemed like there were. . . memories rippling under the surface, things that you kept a tight lid on. If Sherlock can help, I don’t know, unburden you a bit, then yes, I am very glad for you, John. It sounds like you’ve found a partner -- a particularly handsome, talented and famous partner.”

As absurd as that should sound, it also seems just about right. Is Sherlock my partner now? We haven’t exactly discussed what labels to use for our relationship, but it seems fair to assume that we are now definitely something more than friends. A partner, after so many years of being alone, would be an incredibly nice thing to have found.

A grin creeps across my face. “I think I have, Greg.”

After Greg and I say goodbye, him walking straight along Holland Park Avenue and me turning north on Ladbroke Grove, I meander through the streets of Notting Hill, detouring to the Thai takeaway for the second time in only four days (how can it only be four days since Sherlock came back into my life?) before heading back to the flat. The wind has kicked up as the sun dips lower on the horizon and I’m grateful to step off the street into the warmth of the flat. 

Sally has disappeared and Sherlock is now laying on the sofa, eyes closed with his hands pressed together under his chin in what I’ve come to recognise as his ‘thinking pose’. He’s dressed in black trousers and a grey shirt, but the effect is marred slightly by the tatty dressing gown he’s thrown over the ensemble. 

At my footsteps, he opens his eyes briefly, his gaze sweeping over me before settling back into the sofa again. After a second, he rumbles, “Hello,” but then says no more. 

“Hi.” 

Sensing he needs some space, I set about getting things sorted for a very late lunch/early dinner of Pad Thai with prawns and green curry with chicken. Not having eaten since breakfast, my stomach grumbles at the sight and smell of the food and I nudge Sherlock’s feet aside so I can sit on the sofa to tuck into my heaping plate. Eventually, Sherlock unfurls and unenthusiastically nibbles his way through a small portion of Pad Thai.

After dinner, we spend the next few hours in front of the television, watching a mindless string of programmes on Channel 4. At some point, Sherlock lays down, his head in my lap and his feet dangling over the far arm of the sofa. Unerringly, my fingers find their way to his curls, combing through them and tracing along his scalp. He shifts under the touch and sighs, his eyes remaining focused on whatever nonsense is happening on the screen. 

Sherlock is still quiet as we prepare to go to bed. We brush our teeth side by side in the small bathroom and Sherlock’s toothbrush joins mine in the holder on the shelf. I fill a glass with water and follow Sherlock into my (our?) bedroom. He takes the near side and I walk around the foot of the bed to get to what is now, apparently, my side of the bed. We lay down and move to find each other, a tangle of clutching limbs, Sherlock’s forehead pressed against my neck. I listen as his breathing evens out with sleep, but I’m too aware of Sherlock next to me to be tired and instead I lay awake thinking. 

While I spend some time worrying over what tomorrow will bring for Sherlock, I can’t help marvelling over novelty of moving through a bedtime routine with someone, the sheer domesticity of it. Last night was incredible, and I cannot wait explore the physical side of our relationship further, but there’s something about tonight that’s even more special, more intimate. I get to be there for him emotionally, and that is such a privilege and just as satisfying, if not more so, than the physical connection we have. I feel like I’m finally starting to believe it -- that, just maybe, he is mine and I am his.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, I wake to an empty bed. Since I’d finally fallen asleep pressed tightly against Sherlock, the lack of his warmth in my arms is immediately apparent. Pushing back the covers, I shuffle out into the hall in search of him. The flat is completely quiet, giving me no indication of where he is, so I glance in the into the kitchen -- empty -- and carry on into the sitting room. 

It’s early still and the sun is just starting to shine weakly across the floorboards. Sherlock is curled up in the armchair. (I’m quickly coming to think of that as his chair -- he looks so perfectly _right_ there.) He doesn’t look up when I enter the room, too intent on scrolling through his phone, brow furrowed. I want to reach out and smooth away the little wrinkles that crease his forehead with my thumb. 

Although he’d never admit it, I can tell he’s anxious about today. If I could, I’d take away all his nerves and worry, but since that’s not possible, I settle for perching on the arm of the chair and running what I hope is a comforting hand across his shoulders, settling it on the back of his neck, skin against skin.

After a few minutes, I ask, “You okay?” 

“Of course, John.” His voice is clear and steady, but the appearance of confidence is shattered when he leans his head against me. My heart hurts for him in that moment, but I don’t press him to talk about it.

We sit like that for awhile, Sherlock continuing to tap away on his phone as I play with the curls at the back of his head. 

“When is Sally getting here?”

“At seven.”

I glance at the clock -- it’s about quarter to seven now. “Ah. Breakfast?”

He shakes his head and then looks up at me, grey eyes wide. “Tea?” 

Huffing out a laugh, because he’s bloody endearing, I kiss him on his head and push off the chair to head into the kitchen. In addition to tea, I set about making enough toast for us both to see if I can tempt him into a few bites. He’ll certainly feel better during the interview this morning if he’s got a bit of food in him. Right? That sounds like something my gran would have said.

I potter about the kitchen, pouring milk into the tea and putting a couple satsumas on the tray along with the toast. It might be pushing my luck with those, but I risk it anyway. 

The next thirty minutes are a whirlwind of activity. Sherlock finishes his cup of tea just as Sally buzzes to be let up. She’s brought a recently pressed suit for him to wear and she fusses over him, fixing his lapels and brushing invisible lint from his shoulders as she rattles off last minute reminders for the upcoming interview. 

I hover, feeling superfluous once again as they operate like a well-oiled machine, and trail behind them as they move into the corridor, preparing to depart. Sherlock dons his long coat and blue scarf and Sally opens the door and holds it for him. He takes a step towards it and then suddenly, he spins and stalks over to where I’m standing against the wall. Settling his large hands on either side of my face, he presses his lips firmly against mine. The kiss feels like desperation and gratitude and something else that I can’t quite let myself identify yet. 

And then he’s gone. 

It’s odd being in the flat on my own again. In five days, I have grown accustomed to having Sherlock here, and now it’s too quiet and strangely unfamiliar. 

I curl myself up in the armchair, just like Sherlock had been earlier, and turn on the television, clicking through to BBC One. Sherlock’s interview is scheduled for half-eight so I suffer through a few random news stories about a music festival in Reading, the latest winner of the Great British Bake Off, and conditions at a Syrian refugee camp. I watch these without taking anything in; all the space in my brain is taken over with concern for Sherlock. 

The annoying jingle that precedes each new story catches my attention and I focus back on the screen. The two presenters are seated on their usual red sofa, prim and proper, ready to alert the world to all the details of Sherlock’s personal life. I find them annoying at the best of times, but today I positively hate them.

“Welcome back,” Naga Munchetty says, perfectly manicured hands clasped together in her lap. “You know him for his appearances in the West End, on the silver screen, and in blockbuster films, however it was a revelation about a past stint in rehab that landed Sherlock Holmes in the headlines last week. The story, which first appeared in the Daily Mail, alleges that over a decade ago, Mr. Holmes spent three months in a rehab facility in Switzerland overcoming an addiction to cocaine. The actor, who is notoriously tight-lipped about his private life, released a statement over the weekend confirming that he was previously admitted to a rehab programme but not commenting on any of the other details that appeared in the original article.”

Her co-presenter, Charlie Stayt, picks up the narration seamlessly, “For the first time since the news broke on Thursday, Sherlock Holmes is speaking publicly about his past and he’s here in the studio with us this morning.”

The camera pans back to reveal Sherlock seated on the sofa, to the right of the presenters. He looks like a completely different person than the one that had been curled up in my bed last night -- aloof, serious and formidable. The expression on his face is unreadable.

On screen, Charlie continues, “Hello, Sherlock, thank you for joining us. We wish it could be under different circumstances, but we’re pleased to chat with you nonetheless.”

Sherlock is sitting with perfect posture, his limbs posed in a studied and controlled way. “Thank you,” he says. The words sound incredibly forced to my ear, but the presenters don’t draw attention to it. They’re probably used to handling all sorts of awkward interviews. 

“While the statement you released confirmed your trip to rehab, it did not go into any detail about the circumstances of your visit. As a result, various rumours have cropped up over the weekend, some more unbelievable than others,” Naga says, pushing the interview forward. Sherlock gazes at her steadily as she gets to her question. “What can you tell us about that period of your life?”

Sherlock pulls on his trouser leg and crosses his legs, and I feel like I’m analysing every slight movement and intake of breath, but still his face gives nothing away. 

“It may sound entirely cliché, but the truth of the matter is that I was a young man experiencing the excesses of the film industry for the first time. I was, perhaps, not making the most responsible decisions as I started my career, distracted as I was by the various temptations that were suddenly at my fingertips. I was invited to parties where alcohol and drugs were freely available. They were there and I was tempted.”

“So just a youthful dalliance?” Charlie asks, clearly not ready to accept that answer. 

“While I’ve come to accept and manage the parts of my personality that tend towards the addictive, I also believe that my age and inexperience left me particularly vulnerable to those negative influences that are so pervasive in this industry. Had I started my career later, I may not have been as susceptible to those temptations. However, it is what it is and I cannot change my story now. I can only learn from it.” They are phrases I recall from his meeting with Sally yesterday and Sherlock recites them like he’s reading his lines.

“And what of your friendship with James Moriarty? In the months leading up to your time in rehab, there were a number of news stories reporting on your close connection to the former actor,” Charlie presses.

Sherlock stiffens visibly at the mention of James Moriarty, an actor who I’ve completely forgotten about in the last five years or so. After a few big British films, he seems to have lost favour as I don’t remember seeing him in anything recently, here or in the US. Sherlock hasn’t mentioned him by name and I had no clue that they were ever connected. The idea that Sherlock had any kind of relationship with him makes my skin itch -- I don’t like thinking of him as Sherlock’s lover or drug dealer or anything else.

“We were introduced by a mutual friend. Our ‘connection’, what there was of it, was short-lived and after I left rehab, I made an effort to surround myself with people who looked after my best interests.”

“And James Moriarty was not one of those people?”

Charlie is digging here, pushing for Sherlock to admit something on live television that can’t be taken back. I clench my hands into fists where they rest on my thighs.

“Looking back on the circumstances of my early career, including that period before I hit rock bottom, it is clear that Moriarty was an insignificant blip. I have not seen or spoken to him in over a decade and I will not make any further comment on his fleeting presence in my life.”

Naga takes over again, thankfully. “As you’ve said, you’ve had time to reflect on your past and the events leading up to your recently revealed stint in rehab. Do you have any advice for young actors just starting out in the business?”

“Hire a good manager and lawyer.” Sherlock’s response is delivered deadpan, but both Charlie and Naga laugh. Sherlock’s lips twist into a forced smile and he continues, “And remind yourself that it’s all fleeting. Regardless of what is promised to you, know that it can all be taken away in the blink of an eye.”

“Is that something that you realised while you were in treatment or later on?” Naga asks, her voice sounding falsely sincere to my ears.

Silence.

Sherlock doesn’t answer and he doesn’t move. It only lasts for a moment, but it’s like his hard drive faltered briefly before continuing to function as normal. “After I left Switzerland, I dedicated myself completely to every project I was attached to for nearly ten years -- I was, to put it colloquially, married to my work. I don’t think I realised how transitory and. . . precious everything is until recently, but I have been reminded of what is truly important and I feel more grateful now for the opportunities that have been afforded to me.” 

Charlie nods approvingly. “That seems like a very positive outlook to have when details of your personal life have been spilled to the public.”

Sherlock’s look can only be described as withering. “I refuse to be ashamed of my past.”

“Nor should you be,” Naga says in an attempt to keep things running smoothly. “I think it’s important that addiction is discussed openly, so that we can begin to dismantle the stigma and sense of shame that surrounds it. When people like you step forward to share your journey, it can only help pave the way for others to open up about their stories.”

Sherlock’s voice has an edge now. “Yes, while it is important to hear people’s stories, it is perhaps more important to address the social and biological factors that lead to addiction in the first place. Personal responsibility only goes so far, especially in an industry like this where power imbalances, exploitation and abuse are rife.”

Despite this being a talking point discussed with Sally yesterday, the way Sherlock said it, with such fierceness, makes me think this is something he truly feels strongly about, and I am so proud of him. Charlie glances to someone off screen. 

After receiving the go-ahead from whichever BBC producer he’d had his silent conversation with, Charlie falls back on his professionalism and replies, “With the rise in mental health issues in this country, especially among young people, that is perhaps a good reminder of how far we still have to go in the industry to ensure the safety and health of everyone involved.” Which sounds like a perfect politician answer to me. On the television, Sherlock simply inclines his head slightly. 

“Well, Sherlock, thank you for sitting down with us this morning and sharing your story with us. We wish you all the best moving forward, especially with the upcoming film,” Naga says.

“Yes, _A Noble Bachelor_ premieres next month here in London and will be in cinemas nationwide on Friday, 16th November,” Charlie says to camera, before turning back to Sherlock with a final acknowledgment and thank you. 

From there, the camera zeroes in on the presenters, cutting Sherlock from the shot, as they segue to the next segment on honey bees. I breathe a sigh of relief that it’s over. It was hard enough for me to watch so I can’t imagine how Sherlock feels after having to discuss his personal life on national television. It must be the absolute worst thing about his job.

I need a cup of tea.

Ever since Saturday night, I’ve wanted to keep Sherlock close by, and now that he’s off in a part of his celebrity world that I don’t have access to, I feel positively fidgety with unease. Moving through the familiar routine of tea-making, I settle at the table with the steaming cup between my hands and begin calculating how long it’ll take them to leave the BBC studios and drive the two miles back to my flat. Sally had said there was nothing else lined up for Sherlock today, so I assume he’ll be coming straight back here, and so I wait impatiently. 

The buzzer goes and I nearly drop the teacup that I’ve been staring into for god knows how long. I hurry over to the door and press the button to the intercom.

“Hello?” I ask like an idiot, as if I don’t know who it is.

“It’s me,” Sherlock rumbles back. I imagine the look on his face to be a combination of amused and ‘oh, you poor, dim-witted human’.

“I know.”

“Then let me in.”

I grin. “Fine -- get up here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The BBC Breakfast Show is actually broadcast from MediaCityUK at Salford Quays in Greater Manchester - something I learned while researching for this fic because I assumed they still filmed in London. Anyway, we’re going to pretend they never made the move so that Sherlock can simply go across the city for his interview and be back with John in as little time as possible. It used to be broadcast from Television Centre in White City, West London which is just a couple miles from John’s flat, which works much better for my purposes. Everyone cool with that? Okay, good. 
> 
> \- Naga Munchetty and Charlie Stayt are actual presenters on the Breakfast Show, but this chapter is not meant to be an accurate reflection of who they are - I’ve only seen occasional clips from the show and know nothing about them personally. What you read here is John’s judgmental and unreliable version of events. No disrespect to either Naga or Charlie was intended.


	14. indefinitely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the premiere of Sherlock's film -- oh, the excitement and the stress!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today you'll get a special treat - the final chapter and the epilogue!

⟪I am convinced that only the most mindless people go into entertainment journalism. These interviews are torture. SH⟫

Sherlock’s text arrives just as I’m sitting down to eat my dinner. I do some quick mental maths and figure out that it’s nearly two o’clock in the afternoon where he is, meaning he’s suffered through five hours of interviews so far. Even though I know that must be awful for him, I feel a momentary sense of sympathy for the people who are scheduled to interview him later in the afternoon. 

The last few weeks have been an endless stream of promotional events and interviews in London, Los Angeles and New York leading up to the release of Sherlock’s new film. With all his jet-setting it seems like I’ve only seen him for brief periods at a time, whenever he’s got a few spare hours between appointments or an odd night here or there when he crawls into my bed, exhausted from a day of ‘people’. Mostly though, we’ve been relying on Facetime and Whatsapp to keep in touch and, if I’m being honest, it’s a pretty rubbish way to start a relationship. It’s like I’m dating my phone instead of a man.

⟪How much longer are you trapped there?⟫

⟪Eons. SH⟫

I snort out a laugh. ⟪Well, shit. Shame you’ll miss your flight tonight.⟫

⟪John, that’s not something to joke about. I will be on that flight regardless of whatever nonsense I’m forced to participate in beforehand. SH⟫

⟪Just don’t do anything that’ll result in arrest or public humiliation, yeah?⟫

⟪Fine. SH⟫

⟪I miss you. SH⟫

The fact that Sherlock is so open about his affection still catches me off guard, even after being surrounded by it for weeks. After a brief internal freakout, the likes of which are becoming less frequent, I finally get my fingers to tap out a reply. ⟪I miss you, too. Text me when you’re at the airport.⟫

⟪Yes, of course. And now… once more unto the breach. SH⟫

⟪UGH. SH⟫

I smile at his melodramatics. 

The rest of my evening is occupied by doing the washing up, sorting through the stack of post that’s piled up over the last few days, and continuing my binge-watch of season two of _Stranger Things_. Just after eleven o’clock, I brush my teeth and, once again, slide into a cold, empty bed.

In the middle of the night, I’m startled out of a deep sleep by a text alert -- Sherlock’s message telling me that he is still waiting to board the plane and he’s ‘bored’. I blearily squint at my phone as I punch out my reply: ⟪So, the usual then. Take a walk around the terminal or deduce your fellow passengers. In your head, preferably.⟫

⟪You and your ridiculous rules. SH⟫

⟪Just thought you might not want to piss anyone off before being stuck on an international flight with them.⟫

⟪Fine. Best behaviour then. Why are you awake? SH⟫

He probably didn’t consider factoring in the time difference before texting. Clearly the expectation is that everyone is on Sherlock Time. ⟪Because you texted me, you git.⟫

⟪Oh. Go to sleep, John. SH⟫

I shake my head and huff out an endeared laugh. ⟪Have a safe flight and I’ll see you in the morning. xx⟫

⟪Did you really just end your text with kisses? SH⟫

⟪Yes. Deal with it.⟫

⟪I’ll kiss you for real in approximately eight hours and 23 minutes. SH⟫

⟪Can’t wait xxxx⟫

I smirk about the excessive number of kisses and then drop my phone back on the nightstand, turn over in the bed and force the excitement about seeing Sherlock so soon from my mind so I can actually get back to sleep. It’s a tough ask.

At half-past seven in the morning, while I’m just boiling the kettle for a cup of tea, Sherlock lets himself into my flat. I had keys cut for him last week after realising the odd hours he kept during a press tour and it’s so much easier now that we’re not trying to coordinate our schedules -- he can just let himself in when he needs to, instead of waiting for me to get home.

Perhaps I should have debated about giving him keys for longer than I did, some might say it’s too soon, but honestly I don’t even care. It works for us, and when he walks into the kitchen, still wearing his coat and scarf and approaches me swiftly to plant a kiss on my mouth, I can’t complain.

“Eight hours and 19 minutes,” he declares, just a touch smug. His lips curl up into a smile as he gazes down at me. “Hello.”

“Hi.” I push up onto my toes to kiss him back. “Hungry? I was just contemplating breakfast.”

“Mmgh, yes please,” he says, stretching his back with a groan, and begins unbuttoning his coat. As he returns to the hall, he calls over his shoulder, “Just toast and some coffee. I expect Sally to descend upon me any moment, so unfortunately this may be a brief visit.”

“What's on today, then?”

Reentering the kitchen, he flaps his hand dismissively. “I’ve lost any sense of professional concern over knowing my schedule. Whatever it is, it will be dull.” He sits down heavily at the table and scrubs his hands through his hair, his curls becoming wilder than usual. I stir a teaspoon of sugar into his tea and place the cup in front of him, dropping a kiss into his mad hair as I lean down.

He’s not wrong about not having much time. We manage a quick breakfast before Sherlock is called away for another two full days of jetlagged film promotion leading up to the premiere later this week. 

We’d had long conversations with Sally about the possibility of me secretly attending the premiere as well. While Sally was up for working out complicated schemes in order to sneak me in without being seen, I didn’t particularly fancy skulking about on my own, pretending not to have any connection to the lead actor, and while he didn’t say anything, it was clear that Sherlock was anxious about the idea, too. It was finally decided to be too risky, regardless of any security measures put in place, so Sherlock would attend on his own and I would be in my flat, a safe distance away.

On Wednesday, not having seen Sherlock again since our abbreviated breakfast two days earlier, I move through my day at the shop in a state of jittery excitement. I’m completely useless with even the most minor tasks and I find myself camping out behind the till, chattering incessantly at the various customers who filter in. Anderson keeps shooting odd looks at me because of my sudden gregariousness, but I can’t exactly explain that my movie star boyfriend has the premiere of his new film tonight, so I try to play it off as nerves for the fake doctor’s appointment that I created earlier in the week so that I could bunk off early to be with Sherlock instead of closing up. Thankfully, Anderson doesn’t suspect anything and he’s agreed to take on those duties today. Maybe he’s not such a rubbish employee after all. 

I make it to two o’clock before I am desperate to get out of there, so I throw on my coat, wave goodbye to Anderson and head out the door. The Tube is relatively quiet at this time of day, so I easily find a seat on the Circle Line on my journey to Sherlock’s flat. 

As agreed, I text Sally when I’ve exited Baker Street Station and by the time I’ve walked the short distance to number 221, Sherlock’s landlady, Mrs Hudson, is there to greet me at the door, same as the previous two times I’d been there. This was a precautionary measure to fool any lurking fans, paparazzi or other members of the press into thinking that I’m a guest of Mrs Hudson instead of Sherlock, thus keeping any potential rumours at bay. It feels a bit unnecessary, but it’s a small concession to make in order to maintain Sherlock's privacy. 

Mrs Hudson is full of smiles and barely contained excitement herself. “Hello, John, dear. Come in, come in!” She bustles me inside the door like the mother hen she is and I kiss her on the cheek as I pass. “Premiere day, isn’t it wonderful?” 

“A bit unbelievable, but yes, it is rather wonderful,” I reply, shrugging off my coat, which she takes from me and hangs on the coat stand in the entryway. 

“You go on up. He’s undoubtedly been expecting you all afternoon.” She gives me a knowing look and shoos me up the stairs.

I knock out of inherent politeness but when no one comes to open the door after a moment, I push my way inside and am greeted by a hive of activity. There is a swarm of people in the sitting room - I pick out Sally, tapping away on her mobile, and the man I recognise to be Sherlock’s stylist. The others I assume are members of Sherlock’s team, ranging from hair stylists to publicists. They ignore me, and Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

Sally finally clocks me and she bustles over to where I’m hovering near the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. “Hello, lover boy,” she purrs with a smirk, unable to resist an opportunity to take the piss. “He’s in the shower. I can distract the others if you want to slip in there with him.”

I cough. “Um, no, that’s okay. I’ll just wait.”

Sally cackles delightedly. “God, you’re adorable when you go all pink and flustered.”

“Err. . . thanks, I think?”

She shrugs. “It’s true. Anyway, I’m actually glad you’re here because Sherlock’s been a nightmare all day and he tends to go a bit soppy when you’re around. Makes my job easier.”

I know she’s not being serious, but her comment causes my hackles to raise slightly. “I’m not his minder, you know, or some kind of Sherlock whisperer,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

She looks a bit startled by my response. “Hey, I know I can be a horrible cow most of the time, but honestly, John, you’ve been so good for him, and I think he’s been good for you too. Just wanted to say that in case you needed to hear it -- I know this whole secret relationship thing must be hard sometimes.”

For the first time in our acquaintance, I can’t detect any sarcasm beneath Sally’s words and it feels strangely uncomfortable. I’m not used to her being heartfelt about anything, despite the fact that she clearly cares for Sherlock, and seemingly by extension, me. 

I sniff to rein in the sudden onslaught of emotions and choke out an uninspired, “oh.” 

She smiles, a look of understanding on her face, and nods to the pink armchair, the back of which I’m currently gripping so hard my knuckles are turning white. “Make yourself comfortable -- you’re in for a long afternoon of sitting around while Sherlock gets dolled up.” And with that, she walks towards a young woman who is speaking on the phone and they have a conversation mostly consisting of gestures.

I take Sally’s advice and settle into the armchair and waste some time playing a word search game on my phone while the others bustle around me. After a while, Sherlock appears wrapped in a dressing gown, and they flock to him, chattering a stream of questions and demands. He notices me immediately, however, and ignores them. “John!” he exclaims, eyes alight with mischief, and I find myself with a lapful of Sherlock Holmes.

I grunt and adjust him so his bony arse isn’t digging into my thigh. “Hello,” I say, grinning up at him. “You excited for tonight?”

He sighs dramatically and whines, “They’re being so tedious, John. You’d think they had nothing better to do than prod and poke and criticise me.”

“I think it’s their job to get you ready for your big night, Sherlock. Not that it takes much effort because you’re bloody gorgeous even like this,” I say, gesturing to his current ensemble of ratty pyjamas and dressing gown.

Sherlock’s face takes on a devious expression and he looks up, announcing “Armon, you heard John, I’m going dressed as I am.”

It’s then that I notice everyone in the room watching us with unrestrained interest. It’s probably the first time any of them have seen Sherlock relaxed and playful, instead of his usual whirlwind of sharp words and disinterest. I hug him a little closer at the thought.

Armon looks momentarily surprised, before he shakes his head and sticks out a hip, “I know I didn’t spend hours finding the perfect look for tonight only to have you flounce outta this flat in that hideous bathrobe.”

“John likes it.”

“Actually, I think I’d rather see you in whatever he’s chosen,” I say, shooting a grin at the stylist.

Sherlock’s face takes on an expression of shock, like I’ve offended him by siding with Armon, but then he huffs and says “fine”. Before getting out of my lap, he kisses me, once again putting on a show for those watching us, which is exceptionally awkward now that our audience is more than just Sally. But I’m not going to worry about it too much considering he obviously trusts these people enough to be open about who we are to each other in front of them.

Over the next few hours, I watch as Sherlock has his hair styled, his makeup done and various other things that seem to put his limited patience to the test. He’s currently sitting in a tall director’s chair arranged near the bright lights that have been set up for hair and makeup. One of the assistants is speaking to him, gesturing at his phone and asking questions rapid-fire. The hair stylist continues to adjust his curls, pulling one here and another there.

It must become too much because he bats the stylist’s hand away from his head and turns to the assistant with the phone and says, “What does that matter?” His voice carries, harsh and agitated, across the room to where I’m sitting.

The young man steps back, started. “Because someone may ask and it’s best to be prepared, right?” He glances nervously at Sally before continuing. “If someone asks why you haven’t brought a date, you should have an answer.”

“It’s none of their business. They’re vultures,” Sherlock all but snarls.

The man opens his mouth to respond, but Sally moves to intercept and redirect Sherlock’s ire. “He’s right, and you know it, Sherlock. We can’t control the questions on a red carpet like we can during an interview.”

“Then what, exactly, is the point of you?” he yells, pushing himself out of the chair and scowling at Sally before striding away from the group of them.

It’s hard to see Sherlock so upset. I know he guards his privacy fiercely, but the pressure of this premiere seems particularly difficult for him. He’s pacing near me so I reach out to try to soothe him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Maybe no one will ask, but if they do, I think it’s better to know how you want to respond.”

“Oh, what do you know? You’ve never had your life splashed across the front page of the papers!” Sherlock spits out, wrenching his arm away. The room goes silent.

Embarrassment and anger bubble up inside of me and I clench my fists as if to physically restrain myself from responding with equal venom. It’s a challenge to stay quiet, but I force myself to remember that this is his night and that this is not the time to start a fight. 

With a sigh, Sally marches over to him, clearly not intimidated by his outburst. “Before it wouldn’t have mattered, but now that John is in the picture, I’d think your response to any questions about your love life should be more delicate, hm, Sherlock?” she says, arching an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock swallows thickly and says nothing.

The silence reigns until Armon, looking from Sherlock to the others in the room, as if challenging any of them to object to the command, says “Time to get you in that fabulous suit.”

Sherlock glares at him but stalks off down the hall, leaving Armon to follow behind. After their departure, a few members of his team start whispering, the hiss of their conversation reaching me across the room but not the words themselves. They’re clearly gossiping about Sherlock, though, and it serves to irritate me further. Sally approaches them, barks some command and they disperse, thankfully. I sit back down on the pink armchair and stew in my feelings of frustration and helplessness.

A few minutes later, from the other room, I hear Sherlock shout, “just leave it!” and Sally hedges nearer to me.

“Go to him,” she says.

“What, no! He made it very clear that he doesn’t want my input right now.” I cross my arms, feeling at that moment like a petulant child.

Sally exhales another frustrated sigh. “You know that’s not true, John. He’s stressed and he’s lashing out, so stop being a stroppy arsehole and go be there for your dickhead of a boyfriend.” 

I glare at her, but deep down, I know she's right. 

With a jerky nod, I force myself to walk down the corridor to Sherlock’s bedroom where he’s currently being dressed by Armon. I knock and stick my head around the door. Armon is aggressively de-linting a tuxedo jacket that’s hanging on the wardrobe door and Sherlock is staring out the window, hands on his hips. “Everything okay?”

Armon glances at me, rolls his eyes and continues to run the lint roller down the sleeve of the jacket.

“Give us a minute, yeah?” I say to Armon and wait until he departs, closing the door with a soft click behind him, before approaching Sherlock. His shirt is pristinely white and I’m afraid to touch it, so instead I settle my hands on his hips, just below his own, and rest my forehead against the back of his neck. At the touch, he exhales deeply, and we stand like that for a moment, my breath synching with his.

“I know these last few weeks have been a lot and that everything seems more annoying right now because of it, but tonight is about you and your amazing film and I hope you can enjoy it, Sherlock, I really do because you deserve to be celebrated.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet, John, so you have no way to know if it’s ‘amazing’ or abysmal.” 

“Yes, I do. I’ve watched your entire filmography, remember? I am the foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes and I know anything that you’ve had a hand in will be truly remarkable.” Sherlock’s body goes rigid, but he doesn’t say anything so I ask tentatively, “Are you nervous because of the storyline of this film?”

Sherlock seems to deflate a bit and he nods. “This film is a reflection of me and. . . and I was asked so many times during interviews about the experience of playing a gay character and I couldn't answer honestly.” He leans back against me and grabs my hands to pull them around his middle. “I need it to do well, not just for my continued career but because it’s the first time I’ve truly felt like me on screen.”

I pull him in tighter. “Sherlock, it’s going to be amazing precisely because you care about it so much. I can’t wait to see it. Multiple times. In the cinema.” It’s a poor attempt at lightening the mood, but I can sense he needs to be pulled out of this vortex of worry and nerves. Thankfully, Sherlock huffs out a bit of a laugh and then turns in my arms, his hands settling on my chest, where he proceeds to fiddle with the buttons of my shirt.

“John, I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you earlier. It was uncalled for and I know you were just trying to help.”

“I know, Sherlock.”

He closes his eyes briefly and sighs, one of his hands migrating up to cup the side of my head. “I really want to kiss you right now, but Clara would absolutely kill me if I mess up this ridiculous foundation I’m wearing.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Later,” I say.

“Yes, later.”

“Okay, let’s finish getting you ready. Should I call Armon back in?”

“If you must.” 

With a soft chuckle, I swat him on the hip and go to the door to let Armon know it’s safe to re-enter. I leave them to it and go to wait in the sitting room with the rest of Sherlock’s team. Ten minutes later, he emerges in his full outfit and my jaw nearly hits the floor. Honestly, while I always think Sherlock looks amazing, and while I’ve seen him in nearly every state of dress, this current outfit is just incredible. 

Armon has put him in a dark blue tuxedo with black lapels and underneath he has a double-breasted waistcoat in a subtle blue and black tartan. The look is finished with a simple black bowtie, black patent leather slip-on shoes and a pocket watch. It’s a beautiful suit with just a touch of Edwardian style as a nod to his role in _A Noble Bachelor_ (and it probably cost more than three months of my mortgage payments). 

Sally whistles and the others shout comments at him, so clearly I’m not the only one who thinks he looks good. Sherlock seems slightly bashful at the attention, but he hides it well under a layer of bored indifference.

“Are we ready to go?” he asks.

“Just let me get a picture for Instagram,” Armon says, pulling out his phone and nudging Sherlock towards the bookshelves that line one end of the room. 

Sally snorts. “You just want Tom to comment on your post.”

“The man designs a good suit!”

“Sure, we’ll pretend that’s the reason.”

Sherlock poses for a photograph, begrudgingly I can tell, and I’m tempted to take out my own phone to document the moment, but I think that might push him over the edge so I just make a mental note to track down the image later. The second Armon lowers his phone, the buzz in the flat kicks up a notch as all of the members of his team rush about to finish any final tasks as they prepare to depart for the theatre. 

Once again, I’m pushed to the edge of the activity, with Sherlock at the centre. I watch as they flit about him, tugging at his suit, showing him something on a mobile, running through lists, giving last minute reminders. Above their heads, I catch his eye and gesture towards the door to indicate that I’m going to slip away. He looks at me intently for a moment and then nods. I quickly mouth ‘good luck’, give him one more reassuring smile and move to leave the flat, his eyes tracking me across the room. 

Once out on the stair, I close the door behind me, effectively cutting off the noise of all the people inside. The sudden silence leaves me feeling wrong-footed and alone, a reminder that I am an outsider in this world. With one final glance at the closed door, I knock my fist against the balustrade and then jog down the steps to make my way home. Mrs Hudson must have been listening because as soon as I reach the bottom, she’s at her door.

“Oh, John! Is he off then?” She’s wearing an apron and there is a delicious smell coming from her flat.

“Just about. They’re finishing up so I thought I’d make myself scarce.” 

She looks at me intently and then says, “I’ve just made scones. Come in and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

Since I was just planning to go back to my flat to spend the evening on my own, the possibility of a little company sounds wonderful. 

“Thanks, Mrs Hudson, I think I will.” 

She just shushes me and opens the door wider so I can pass through.

***

A sound wakes me in the middle of the night and I struggle to wake up in order to figure out what it was, my mind foggy. Before I can peel my eyes open, the bed dips and then a heavy weight settles across my chest. The scent of hair products and cologne filter into my increasing wakefulness. Sherlock.

“Mmmngh,” I groan, wrestling my arms from under the duvet and hugging him close to me. “Hi.” My voice scratchy with sleep. 

Instead of responding, he works his hands under my back and pulls himself tight against me, nose nuzzling into my neck, not so much with affection but rather, it seems, to seek comfort. It’s late -- he must be exhausted, and he’s still in his tux. The wool, fine as it is, still scratches against the skin of my forearms. 

We drift like that for awhile, Sherlock seeming to get heavier on top of me as he relaxes. I can tell he’s not asleep though, so I ask, “How’d it go?”

Sherlock shrugs against me. 

“I tried to follow along on Twitter, using the hashtag Sally texted, but that app is too confusing. From what I saw, though, people seem really excited.”

A small nod. Then Sherlock mumbles against my neck, “I wish you had been there.”

“Yeah, that would have been nice.” I stop there because I don’t want to make him feel guilty.

This time, Sherlock shakes his head and squeezes me tighter. “It felt all wrong without you there with me. Any thrill I’d felt at past premieres completely evaporated tonight.”

I stroke my fingers through his hair and say, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It should have been a happy night.”

“It would have been, if you had been there.” Sherlock lifts his head then and despite the darkness of the room, I’m able to feel the intensity in his eyes. “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”

I inhale sharply, and the words loop through my head. Each time they repeat, it sounds more and more like a declaration, a promise of something bigger. I’m so close to uttering those three small words that mean so much back to him; I can feel them percolating at the back of my brain but I can’t quite get them to come out. Instead, I pull him down into a fierce kiss, trying to put every overwhelming thing I’m feeling into it so Sherlock will maybe just _know_ how I feel for him without me having to say it. I’m not brave enough for that yet. 

It’s a kiss of longing and tenderness and desire. Sherlock is holding me so tightly it’s hard to breathe and he’s making small, needy mewling sounds that cause my heart to ache for him. He’s also rutting against me, but between the weight of him pinning me down, the suffocating duvet and the fact that he’s still wearing his tux, I suddenly feel completely trapped and desperate to get my hands on him. 

Tearing my mouth away, I push at his shoulders. “Up,” I command, “Off. Can’t move. Want to touch you.” I need him too much to form complete sentences.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, propelling himself to his feet, all cat-like grace and intent with purpose, and begins clawing at his tuxedo, pieces falling inelegantly to the floor. I watch him while I kick the duvet away, glad to be free of it. More quickly than I expected, considering the number of layers he was wearing, he’s naked and back in my arms, kissing me everywhere wildly and pulling at the t-shirt and boxers I have on. 

Once he’s divested me of the offensive garments, I can’t help but groan at the contact when he lays on top of me once more, the firmness of his erection where it presses into my thigh. I curl my limbs around him in an effort to keep him there always and seek out his lips once more. Sherlock settles against me, his hot skin pressing into mine, the intensity of the feeling is nothing short of incredible now that there’s nothing between us. My hands trail down his back to grasp his arse, pulling him up so that our erections slide together, keeping with the rhythm Sherlock has established. 

God. He feels so fucking good, and I still can’t fully believe that I get to do this with him. This could all end rather suddenly if I let myself get caught up in it. I could come from the friction alone, and I absolutely refuse to let that happen. Come on, Watson, hold it together. 

Sherlock is panting against my cheek, his forehead pressed to mine. “John,” he gasps, his hips continuing to rock against mine in a controlled rhythm, deliberately slower. He pulls back then, bracing himself to look down at my face. “I need you. Please.” It’s pleading and visceral, sending a frisson of electricity down my spine. 

I know immediately fpr what he’s asking and my heart thumps erratically in my chest. Regardless of how many orgasms we’ve had together, this will be a first. Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I lick my lips and nod. Sherlock sighs, as if relieved, and then rolls off me onto his back, legs falling open and his right hand running down my thigh, squeezing briefly in encouragement when I fail to move at the sight of him displayed like that. 

Fumbling, I rummage through the drawer in the bedside table for a condom and lube, finally locating them and shifting back next to Sherlock again, nervous with anticipation. If I’m completely honest, it’s been a damn long time since I’ve done this, long enough that I feel like an inexperienced teenager at the prospect of being the one to give Sherlock what he so desperately needs in this moment. 

Despite shaking fingers, I manage to roll on the condom, the once familiar motion feeling strangely foreign given the importance of what will happen next, and move to lay between Sherlock’s legs. I take a deep breath to collect myself and look down at him. Even in the shadowy darkness, he looks radiant and so very open, every last barrier stripped away.

In the end, it’s Sherlock’s calm certainty that propels me to move past my nerves and refocus on him, on making him feel good. His hands slide across my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I slide slowly into him until I’m surrounded by the silky heat of his body. 

It feels like heaven. 

Afterward, long after our pulses have slowed and our bodies have cooled, we lay wrapped up in each other. It’s quiet and peaceful in the wee hours of the morning, like we have emerged in our own world where no one else exists beyond the two of us. 

“John?” Sherlock whispers, his voice sounding loud in the silence.

Resurfacing from my satisfied and stupidly happy haze at his question, I press a lingering kiss to his throat. “Mm?” 

“What are you doing Saturday night?” 

“Oh, you know, I’ve got some very big plans.”

Sherlock makes a curious noise. “And what might those be?”

Compared to the life he leads, my regular routine seems particularly dull -- something I’ve continued to struggle with as he swans off to each new event, so I find myself playing the sarcastic card. “Well, it came as a total surprise but, the London Symphony Orchestra has invited me to play the clarinet with them in a special one-off concert.”

Sherlock huffs, the exhalation ruffling my hair. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

I shrug against him. “Sorry, sorry. I mean I’ll actually be attending a gallery opening at the V&A.”

“John.” Sherlock says, stretching the ‘o’ out in frustration.

Laughing, I say, “I don’t know, Sherlock. I’ll probably be doing my usual -- close up the shop, order a takeaway and settle in with a good book. Why, what have you got on?”

He takes a deep breath and then says, “I’d like to take you on a proper date.”

“Hm, that usually happens _before_ you get someone into bed.”

“Pssh. When have we ever cared about following conventional heteronormative dating rituals? They’re silly and outdated, and besides, it’s not about that -- I’m being serious,” he says, sounding a bit put out. “By Saturday, I will be done with my current promotional obligations and after a rather chaotic start to our relationship, I thought it would be nice to spend time together, outside of this flat.”

I suddenly feel bad for being a snarky ass. Sherlock was trying to be sweet and make up for the last few weeks of busy-ness, separation, and rushed visits, and I had to be an insecure jerk about the whole thing. 

“Ask me again.”

“Pardon?”

I shift up in the bed so I can look him in the eye. “Pretend I didn’t say all that rubbish just now and ask me again.”

Sherlock seems a bit reluctant but eventually says, “John, if you have no prior engagements, would you like to go on a date with me on Saturday night?”

I grin and kiss him. “Yes, Sherlock Holmes, I would love to be your date. . . indefinitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If anyone is wondering, this is kind of what I imagined Sherlock to be wearing to the premiere:  
>    
>   
>   
> \- And the ‘Tom’ that Armon refers to is Tom Ford because his suits are amazing.


	15. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe we're here!! Thank you so much to everyone who's taken this journey with me. I honestly didn't know if I'd be able to write a multi-chapter fic - I'd never done it before and it seemed a huge challenge. I hope you've enjoyed reading this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> And a huge thank you to my wonderful betas @zigster-ao3 and @eternaljohnlock - I could not have completed this fic without you both! xx

~three months later~

I feel like I can’t breathe.

The collar of my starched shirt is digging into my neck and it’s far too warm inside the car. I shift against the seat, trying to relieve some of the pressure building up inside my chest, but it’s useless. There’s no way to be comfortable while wearing this tuxedo en route to the bloody BAFTAs. 

It feels like too big of an undertaking suddenly, realisation dawning that each minute takes us closer to the point of no return, but I promised Sherlock I would be there with him. He’s nominated for Best Actor in a Leading Role for _A Noble Bachelor_. The film already had good early reviews, but it received a major boost following the interview in which Sherlock came out to a very surprised reporter just before Christmas. 

He’s seated beside me, looking out the window. To an outside observer, he may appear calm, but I know it’s an act. Sherlock is as anxious as I am about this -- the first time we’ll be officially photographed together. The paparazzi and fan photos that made their way into the tabloids and onto social media and the resulting speculation don’t count. 

Our attendance tonight is a statement of who Sherlock is and who he’s chosen to be with -- 

Me. 

Although, officially, no one knows that yet. Sherlock has attended the premieres and other award shows so far on his own. The expectation is that he will do the same tonight, so there really is no pressure for me to walk the red carpet with him.

Sherlock seems to sense the direction of my thoughts. “You can meet me inside. The driver can take you to the side entrance instead and you can slip in unnoticed. I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own.” His tone is dismissive, but I can see the tension building in his body. His protective barriers are going up and I absolutely hate that he feels that he has to go it alone. He’s been on his own for far too long. 

“Capable? Sherlock, of course you’re capable of it, but that doesn’t mean I want you to have to do it.”

He huffs slightly. “Oh, you know what I mean. I am very aware of the fact that this is asking a lot of you, how it will open up your life to intrusive media speculation and public curiosity that being with me will inevitably bring. I am used to it, but I would protect you from it if I could.”

I reach out and take his hand. “Sherlock, we’ve discussed this. Yes, this is terrifying for me, absolutely -- I’m not part of this world, not really, but I’m thrilled for you and I want to be with you tonight.” And every night for the rest of our lives, I think, a vision of the velvet box hidden away in my flat appearing clearly in my mind, but I tamp that down -- now is not the time for that conversation.

He holds my gaze, eyes communicating deep emotions similar to the ones that are running through me. “I’m glad you’re here, John,” he says, quietly. 

I work up a smile. “Just don’t let go of my hand, okay? Then I’ll be fine.”

“Acceptable,” he breathes out, and I find myself reeled in, Sherlock’s hand on the back of my neck as he kisses my forehead. I close my eyes and lean into the pressure, feeling more centred at the contact. We stay pressed together, silent and connected, in our private cocoon as the London streets fly by outside the windows. 

All too soon, we arrive at the theatre. There is a momentary pause when it feels like the whole universe has slowed and then the door is opened by an attendant and Sherlock steps out of the car to be greeted by a wall of noise -- screaming fans, photographers shouting, flashes going off. He buttons his jacket and then turns back to the interior of the car, hand outstretched.

Here we go.

My heart is racing as I slide across the seat and grasp his right hand in my left, fingers clenched tight as though I’m holding on for dear life. Perhaps I am.

I step out of the car next to him and there is a split-second pause in the screaming, like the throngs of people gathered outside the theatre take a collective gasp as they register what is happening -- that Sherlock Holmes, critically acclaimed and newly out actor, has brought a date to the BAFTAs -- and then the screaming intensifies, louder than before. 

I can feel Sherlock worrying for me, his fingers pressing around mine in reassurance. I glance up, hoping to convey that I’m okay despite how nerve wracking this is -- this is his night and I am here for him. His eyes search mine and it feels like the noise and chaos around us just fades away. [It’s just me and Sherlock.](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/179241055833/inktober2018-red-carpet-date-inspired-by-the)

He stands tall and handsome in his tuxedo, the night sky and lights from the theatre casting a blue glow around him as camera flashes sparkle in the background. The red carpet is a streak of colour to the right of him, guiding us into the theatre. For a moment, I’m reminded of a painting I saw once on a rare trip the Tate. A Chagall, I think. The colours. The feeling. 

It feels like how being in love should be -- floating through a dark blue sky.

Minus the violin-playing goat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned this in the notes of a previous chapter, but as people have been asking about a few different elements of this story (e.g. John's comic and the velvet box), I may explore a few short stories set in this universe to finish off some of those story arcs that didn't fit within this fic as it stands. Like you, I'm dying to learn how John is planning to propose to Sherlock! :)


End file.
